


The Last Con

by reve_silencieux



Series: The Last Con [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reve_silencieux/pseuds/reve_silencieux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this universe, Neal was not kidnapped, Peter never considered the DC offer, and life went on. Neal is finally off the anklet and has made a choice. One month into his new life in London, a stolen Chagall threatens to change his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back in November during Season 5. I was able to weave in most of the plotline, but not all. So just keep that in mind.

Peter sighed as he skimmed the stack of reports on his desk. Like the rest of the world, returning to work on Monday mornings was not his favorite thing. As ASAC, he had to go through all the active cases and read through any weekend updates. They might get the weekends off, but the criminal element did not, unfortunately. On Sunday, one of their suspects had been spotted in Bushwick by the local police, and he made a note to talk to the agent in charge of the case to spearhead a surveillance team. It would bring about more paperwork, but the lead was promising.

A knock sounded on his door and he looked up, grateful for the interruption. Waving Jones and Diana in, he closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. 

“How did the stakeout go last night?” he asked as the two agents sat down. There were some perks to his position, and that included designating who got stuck on weekend duty. He couldn’t play favorites all the time though, so it had been Jones and Diana’s turn to man the van on their current case. But they were used to it and didn’t complain. Everyone had to pull their own weight, even if there were times they wished criminals worked nine to five. 

Jones grimaced. “We got nothing. No one came around, and he stayed in all night.”

Peter wasn’t surprised. Their suspect had been keeping a low profile, and they had nothing to pin on him. All they had was the talk on the streets, and a blurry video that no jury would convict on.

“You know, Neal would have a hare-brained scheme right about now, just to get out of van duty,” Diana commented.

Chuckling, Peter shook his head. “Maybe, but we do this the right way, even if it’s tedious and boring.”

“As long as we don’t have to smell deviled ham, I’m alright with it,” Jones quipped and grinned when Peter shot him a look.

“You can never repeat this to anyone, because I will bruise you in a place you'd be embarrassed to show your mother.” Diana paused. “But I kinda miss Neal. You could always count on him to liven up a stakeout.”

Jones and Peter both stared at her, eyes wide in disbelief. 

She shrugged. “What? Okay, yeah, he would complain a lot, but he had great stories and brought really good food.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that, but the man could not sit still,” Jones said with a quick shake of his head. “You’d think for a thief, he’d have the patience of a saint, but his foot would be tapping or he’d be playing with whatever he could get his hands on.”

“Whatever the case may be—Neal’s not here, and we’re going to continue to close cases by the book.” Peter couldn’t help but smile, though. The former con man’s presence had been missed by everyone.

“You hear from him lately?” Diana asked.

Peter shook his head. Neal’s anklet had come off three months ago, and he had moved to London. He was on retainer with Sterling Bosch to do whatever they needed, be it recovery, security consultation or art authentication, but he knew Neal was still trying to figure out his life. The job was a means to get a work visa so he could live with Sara without Interpol breathing down his neck.

The last year of his sentence had been a challenge, but they had finally settled back into a routine that Peter liked to think was good for everyone. Jones had officially taken over as Neal’s handler, but they all worked as a team, including Peter whenever he had the time. He still missed field work, but had eventually realized that he couldn’t keep stepping out of the office when he had a job to do. 

His phone rang and he glanced at it, grinning when he noticed the area code. “Well, speak of the devil. London.”

“Uh-oh… what did he do now?” Diana teased.

“I guess we’ll find out.” Peter smiled and picked up the phone. “Burke.”

He frowned when he heard the unfamiliar tone of a woman with a British accent. A moment later the color from his face drained as the words sunk in.

“What? No, you have to be mistaken. Have they been identified?”

Diana and Jones looked at each other, ostensibly puzzled, and after a beat turned back to their boss, concern etched on their faces.

Peter ran a hand over his face, and took a deep breath. “No, thank you. Please keep me informed.” With a shaky hand, he dropped the phone down and closed his eyes.

“Boss?”

He opened his eyes and felt like he’d aged a good ten years in the span of the short phone call. “That was a friend of Sara’s...” he trailed off, blinking away sudden tears and wiped them away quickly. Peter shook his head and wished he didn’t have to say the words out loud. “Neal and Sara were in a car accident on Saturday. Their taxi was broadsided. The driver died instantly.” 

He stopped short and choked back more tears. “Sara died a short while later at the hospital. Neal did not make it through surgery.”

“Oh God…” Diana raised a hand to her mouth.

Jones banged a fist on the chair’s armrest. “Shit.”

All three looked at each other, stunned, unable to believe that the man they had just been joking about was really gone. He might have walked out of their lives a few months ago, but they all had hoped to see him again.


	2. Chapter One

**_Three months earlier_ **

“I can’t believe, after all these years, I’m seeing you off at the airport.” Peter shook his head, chuckling and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

Neal grinned. “You? What about me? I’m supposed to be running away from the feds.”

“Technically, you are,” Peter replied dryly.

“But _with_ their explicit knowledge, Peter.” He rocked back on his heels, smirking. “That kinda defeats the purpose.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Just don’t get into trouble, will you? I can’t come running after you in London.”

Neal shot him a pure Caffrey look—bright eyes, even brighter smile and an expression that would make anyone believe he could do no wrong. “Who, me?”

Peter let out a short huff, but he couldn’t help but smile and clap him on the back. “Good luck, Neal.”

Neal paused, and stared at his friend. For a while he hadn’t know if he would make it to this point, but he had—because Peter never gave up on him. “Thanks, Peter. I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll hold you to that. I’m getting too old to chase you.”

“Never. Peter Burke will always find me.” Neal grinned and turned towards the security line. After clearing the first TSA agent, he looked back, his stomach clenching. Peter smiled and waved. Neal nodded, taking a deep breath, and walked on. He had a new life waiting for him. It was time to break ties.

*~*~*~*

“So how does it feel?” Sara slid into bed next to him.

Neal looked at her questioningly, wrapping an arm around her, pulling her closer. Today had been one of the first times he’d actually had someone to greet him at the airport, and they’d barely been out of each other’s sight since then.

“You’re a free man. No more anklet, no more radius. Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire, using his real name, working a real job with no one chasing after him.”

“It feels good. Right. It’s been a long time coming.” He cupped her cheek and leaned in, kissing her softly. “And he's extremely thankful to have the most beautiful woman in London take him in off the streets.”

Sara pulled away, laughing. “You’re not getting more of the closet, Caffrey.”

Neal pouted playfully. “Then we definitely need a bigger place. Your shoes alone need their own closet.” 

He hadn't brought much with him, but between the two of them, they had filled her closet to the max. June had graciously told him to keep all of Byron's suits, plus he had acquired plenty of his own clothes over the last four years. After living in June's place with a large walk in closet, he’d been spoiled. Sara had a lovely flat in South Kensington, much nicer than he probably could have afforded on his new salary, but it wasn't large. Thankfully she had a second bedroom where they moved their off season clothing and stored the few belongings and art supplies that he had brought. 

Sara had been surprised at how little he had, but Neal was used to living on the run. He’d never put down roots, and certainly hadn’t collected stuff that would tie him down or require movers and more than a few boxes. Even while working for Adler, he didn't have much to his name. He saw a different future for himself now, and looked forward to building a home—a life, with Sara.

“Maybe once you’re contributing more to the rent, we can think about it.”

He sighed dramatically. “If you only let me dip into some of my reserves-” He stopped when she placed a finger on his lips.

“We talked about that. Clean slate, Neal. If we're going to make this work, we're going to have to put the past behind us. I'm not going to ask you about what you once did, and unless one of your forgeries pops up at work, then we're not even going to think about it.”

Logically, Neal knew it was the right thing to do, but it was going to be hard. He would never be able to separate himself from his past life. His forgery conviction would always follow him around. Sterling Bosch didn’t mind, but the next place might. And what about some ambitious Detective Inspector who spotted his face while investigating a stolen painting? He knew people would always be suspicious of him.

Peter and Elizabeth and Sara all meant well, telling him that he was a good person, that he could have a new life, but he knew better. Neal Caffrey was a con and it was going to take a lot to erase that from everyone's memory.

The fact that Sara was taking this chance with him, putting her name and reputation alongside his without fear of being tarnished, amazed him. Peter, at least, got to point to closed cases when people doubted their partnership, but Sara? She had no reason to stake her faith in him beyond loving him. And that right there was what made it all worth it. He'd always been a romantic, but deep down all he ever wanted was a family.

Now all he had to do was prove to her that she hadn't made a mistake believing in him.

Or hadn’t made a mistake giving up closet space.

Sara laid her head on his chest. He looked down at the red hair fanned out and smiled.

“Maybe you could donate some of your shoes,” he remarked offhandedly then yawned, closing his eyes. The jet lag was definitely catching up with him.

“Careful, Caffrey, or else I'll put your ass right back on that plane,” she murmured, not moving a muscle.

He laughed and shook his head. He’d missed her.

*~*~*~*

“Are people staring because I’m an ex-con, or because I’m dating the boss?” Neal murmured as the two of them walked back to her office after stepping out for lunch.

He’d been with Human Resources all morning, signing paperwork and going over benefits. When they broke for lunch, the HR ladies had graciously offered to take him out to lunch, as was customary for new employees, but he politely declined. Even if he hadn’t made plans with Sara, it had felt a little too much like they were putting on a show for his benefit—or possibly Sara’s. He could feel the tension in the air, and something told him that it was going to be harder to win over his new coworkers at Sterling Bosch than the straight-laced agents at the FBI. And most likely it had more to do with the fact that Sara had directly hired him than his criminal background. But it was a toss-up.

“Not everything is about you, Caffrey. I think most of them are too surprised to find out I actually have a boyfriend.” Sara walked into her office and Neal followed, closing the door behind them for privacy as she sunk into her chair. He bypassed the two guest chairs and walked to the couch by the windows.

He might work for his girlfriend, but it was just a little too weird to actually _work_ for her, and sitting across the desk while they talked felt too much like being reprimanded by his teacher. Some people might have fantasies about dating the boss, and what that entailed, but he much preferred to keep it at their apartment. Besides, Sara had given him the lecture when she first proposed the job to him. They weren’t going to hide their relationship, but they weren’t going to flaunt it, either.

Slinging an arm across the back of the couch, he raised an eyebrow curiously. “Maintaining your tough-as-nails boss persona? Am I hurting that or giving you some street cred? I _am_ an ex-con.”

“For a guy wanting to start over, you sure like to bring that up a lot,” Sara remarked, her focus turning towards her computer as she started to check her email.

Neal shrugged. “No one seems to let me forget it, so why should I try to deny it? It _is_ why you hired me.”

Sara looked up and frowned. “Neal…”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sad smile, and stood up. “Don’t worry about it, Sara. I am who I am. Nothing’s going to change that.” He slid a hand into his pocket and waved the other towards the door. “Anyway, I’d better get back to orientation. IT’s up next. I’m sure they’re terrified of giving me access to the company’s network.”

He walked out of her office and kept his head up high and smiled at those he passed. 

It had taken him a long time to come to terms with what Dr. Summers had told him, and what he felt was his true nature afterwards. Cleaning up the mess with Hagen and coming clean with Peter, and later Sara, had helped put his head back on straight, but he’d still had to make the decision on who he wanted to be. It had been Sara who’d convinced him that he wasn’t a sociopath. They’d kept in touch via email, and having an outside observer had been the key to getting back on the right path.

Deep down, he would always have that desire for the thrill of the con, but he also wanted to be proud of himself. Arrogance had been his downfall for too long, and he knew that it couldn’t last. Working with Peter, Jones, and Diana for four years had shown him how much he liked being the good guy and having people around to support him, even when he made mistakes. There was no safety net when he was by himself, despite Mozzie’s help. It was all on him. When it came right down to it, he much preferred to be on the right side of the law, with the badges backing him up instead of taking him down.

*~*~*~*

Sara didn’t get the call from the Tate until late in the afternoon (which she was still bristling about), but there was nothing to be done about that now. But she would certainly have a talk with the head of security later about it. She had wanted to call Neal in as soon as she heard, but it was ridiculous to ask him to come into the office when she'd be home in two hours. They hadn't given her much info anyway, and Neal wouldn't be able to visit the museum until the next day.

Neal was in the kitchen when she got home, about to start cooking dinner, and she gratefully poured herself a glass of wine that he'd set out.

“The Tate called me this afternoon. A client's Chagall was stolen last night.”

He glanced over at her, surprised. “Which one?”

“ _The Green Donkey_. I looked it up—it's... colorful.” She made a face and took a sip of her wine.

“Well, Chagall was known for his use of color. I'm guessing someone with eclectic tastes wanted it,” Neal replied, walking to the fridge.

Sara frowned. “Yes, but that's one ass I wouldn't want up on my wall.”

Neal laughed, gripping the fridge handle to keep himself upright. Sara shrugged lightly and grinned. 

“Any idea who took it?”

“No. It was nearly a flawless job. The Tate in Liverpool had a Chagall exhibition the past few months, and those pieces that belonged to the Tate here in London were just sent back a few days ago. They haven't been put back on display yet.”

Nodding, Neal pulled out a few things and closed the door. “Smart. It's a lot easier to get access to the painting in the back of the museum than on the floor.”

“Right. The only thing they did wrong was set off the alarms on their way out. But they told me there's nothing on the security tapes.” Sara leaned against the bar and sipped at her wine. “Look, I can’t play favorites, but I really want you on this one. Eva's the only one besides you with the time to take this on, but she's still too green.”

Neal laid out green, red, and orange bell peppers on the counter and looked up. “Why don’t I work with her? Call it training.”

“That could work, I suppose. I just don’t want her thinking that I don’t trust her. She’s good, but she’s been doing this for less than a year. Even I didn’t get the Raphael case until I’d been working for two years.”

“It still irks you that you didn’t catch me, doesn’t it?” Neal grinned, and Sara glowered.

Picking up the wine stopper, she threw it at him. Neal stepped to the side quickly and laughed. “Hey, you’re supposed to kiss the cook, not maim the cook, or else you’re on your own for dinner.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “I have lived on my own since college. I can take care of myself, even though I might not cook like a gourmet chef.”

“That’s certainly true, because the chicken the other night…” Neal trailed off, smirking, then yelped, ducking as a shoe came flying at his head.

*~*~*~*

Neal sipped at his beer, a finely imported pint of Chimay and one of the perks of living in Europe now. Even though he preferred a glass of Merlot, it was still better than the stuff Peter would bring over. Eva was halfway through her pint, and he could tell she was trying to slow down even more. He had no problems imagining her as a teen drinking with her friends at the local pub. She looked the part right now, wearing a tight top and a jean jacket over an even tighter and shorter skirt. It was quite the opposite from when he'd first met her at the office—she’d been wearing an expensive L.K. Bennett dress and high heels.

She made him wonder what Sara had been like at that age, both fresh out of college and just starting recovery, and her college years as well. Sara had mentioned hanging out with the bad kids that one summer, but she'd been with her sister, and he knew after Emily had run away that Sara had grown up faster than most kids.

When did she become the self-assured, independent and strong woman he'd come to love?

A chorus of laughter emanated from the booth next to them, and Neal tried to pick apart the voices of the various men.

_“Where's Jimmy tonight?”_

_“Don't know and don't care. He cocked up the job last week. The git cut the wrong wire when we were leaving and lit the whole place up like a Christmas Tree.”_

Eva's eyes widened and she straightened up. Neal laid a hand over hers and slowly shook his head. Not yet. They sat and waited, listening for anything else about the job, but aside from some egregious cursing, there wasn't much more said on the subject. Apparently no one was concerned for Jimmy's well-being anymore.

Half an hour later, a couple of them got up and left. Neal had been carefully tracking the voice of the person who'd mentioned the Tate job and nodded at Eva to let her know he was one of them. He snapped a picture of the guy on his phone, though he only managed a profile. The guy was medium height, with a slight build, and brown hair. Completely forgettable and of absolutely no help to them. Eva's eyes anxiously followed him and Neal smiled softly, hoping to calm her down.

She was green, but everyone had to start somewhere. Even Sara had said as much. Neal had no doubt that she knew her Monet from her Manet, but it was time for her to learn what it was like on the streets.

He pulled out his wallet, threw down some cash and scooted out of the booth. Eva got up and looked to him for his lead. Slinging his arm around her shoulder, he whispered in her ear. “Play drunk.”

Eva slumped in his arms and let out a giggle.

“You Yanks just have to co-copy everything, don't you? And...and you never do it right. They all fail. Or, uh...except that one... what was it called? Dundy Muff...Muffin? You know...the office one.”

Neal chuckled. “You mean _The Office_?”

Eve poked a finger at his chest and giggled some more. “That's it!”

They walked out of the bar, Eva stumbling every few steps, and rambling quietly. They weren’t too far behind the guy. They quickly spotted him halfway down the street and started to follow at a discreet distance.

Neal stopped her when they saw him enter an apartment building. It was older, slightly run down, but not the worst area of London, either. He'd stayed in worse places years ago. This guy had enough money to stay afloat.

“What do we do now?” Eva asked, looking up at the building, worried.

Glancing down at the young girl by his side, he bit his lip. He could go in and talk to a few neighbors, but it'd be risky. They might not trust him. But Eva...

“You go talk to some of the tenants. Figure out his name and where he lives.”

“Me?”

“You're a young, pretty girl who they can trust. They'll talk to you. You have your defense spray?” 

Sara's baton was illegal in England (he'd been too afraid to point out that it was illegal in New York too). Sometimes there were things you just didn't argue about with Sara. Unfortunately pepper spray was also illegal, much to his consternation. Aside from self-defense classes, all he could recommend to Eva was a defense spray that marked a guy red and allowed you a moment's distraction and a chance to run away. It was better than nothing, and Neal was always a proponent of running rather than fighting.

Eva nodded and took a deep breath. She walked off, her stride confident and just a bit seductive.

He slunk into the shadows, leaning against a burned-out streetlight, watching the street as she slipped into the building. Ten minutes later she emerged from the dimly lit entryway. Eva walked calmly back to where she'd left him, but didn't stop, passing him by. Neal shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, and joined her as she continued down the street, acting casual and hoping not to attract any attention.

Maybe she wasn't so green after all.

“Well?”

Neal saw her teeth shine as she smiled wide in the moon light. “Colin Jacobson lives in flat 3C and he might have gypped my little brother out of thirty quid down at the pool hall a couple nights ago.”

Chuckling, he shot her an admiring look. “Nicely done.”

*~*~*~*

Neal and Eva had tailed Colin the last couple of days. Aside from learning the guy's food preferences and that he worked at the docks, they didn't have much to go on. Neal had hoped to take a look at Colin's place, but suspected they wouldn't find anything. The Chagall was probably long gone, and Colin didn’t seem the type to leave anything incriminating around. Their best bet was to identify the whole crew and work from there, hopefully finding the leader of the operation.

Meanwhile, Jimmy was the weak link. After talking with a few sources, he’d learned where the guy lived, and that no one had heard from Jimmy in over a week. He was persona non grata since the fateful Tate job. Either Jimmy had left the country for greener pastures, or he was trying to work a job by himself to bolster his reputation back up. There was a third, slightly less savory, explanation and he was hoping it hadn't come to that.

They were now at his place, and he was having Eva practice her lock-picking skills once they'd determined no one was home.

“You know, technically I'm senior to you, shouldn't I be telling you what to do?” Eva asked, although Neal could tell she was actually excited to try her hand at it.

“When you can pick a lock in ten seconds and know about every safe out there and how to crack it, I'll gladly let you take lead,” he replied, shooting her his trademark smile. It had disarmed her when they first met, but she'd slowly grown immune to his charms.

Rolling her eyes, she ignored him and pulled out her lock picks. “Isn't that impossible?”

“Picking the lock? No. Knowing every safe—probably. But the point is I have years of experience, and you're here to learn.”

Neal flashed her a grin, and went to keep watch from down the hallway. There was something to be said for working on your own and not worrying about search warrants. While he would look back fondly on the time he spent working with the FBI, he liked the freedom that came with insurance investigation. Technically he was breaking and entering, but he was going after the bad guys. They tended not to report you to the police.

He smiled at Eva's triumphant cry when the lock clicked and checked his watch. Just over a minute. “Not bad.”

Stepping in front of her, he opened the door, gloves on, and walked into the apartment. Eva followed him in and they found a bare bones living room. An old couch sat against the wall and an even older tube TV was on a decrepit coffee table on the opposite wall. He moved towards the kitchen and sorted through a stack of mail and other papers. Jimmy hadn't left town. The only interesting thing he found was a receipt with a handwritten date and time.

The sound of Eva gagging made him turn. He saw her standing with the door of the refrigerator open.

“I don't think he's been here for a while.”

He crossed the small kitchen and looked inside. Pulling out a takeaway container, he opened it and turned his head quickly at the smell of rotting food. Closing it and the fridge, he stepped around her and moved towards the bedroom.

“Take pictures of everything on the table—every bill, every receipt. Go through the trash, too,” he called out and started to go through the piles of dirty laundry on the floor, emptying out pockets and looking for anything that could help them.

“They never told me about this when I signed up!” she complained loud enough for him to hear.

Neal didn't bother to respond. Recovery wasn't a glamorous job. But then, not many jobs were. He'd once hid in a garbage dumpster for four hours waiting for the police to clear out. Mozzie had refused to be in the same room with him three days afterward.

Moving to the bathroom, his stomach clenched as his mind ran over the facts. Jimmy had botched a job and no one was talking about him anymore. Someone else was pulling the strings, and it was obvious that nobody wanted to be on their bad side.

Jimmy was most likely dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is [The Green Donkey](http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/chagall-the-green-donkey-n05758) at the Tate. As Sara said... it's colorful. And yes, they really did have a Chagall exhibit at the Tate in Liverpool.


	3. Chapter Two

“Tempted?”

Neal turned his attention away from the art hanging on the gallery walls, and smiled disarmingly. “Always.”

Sara was beautiful in her floor length navy gown. It had a delicate lace overlay, capping her shoulders and giving him a tantalizing view of her back. But it wasn't so much the sight of her as it was the look in her eyes—just slightly distracted, soft, open—that took his breath away.

It had been a week since he’d started the Chagall case, and Neal had reservations about continuing, or at least about dragging Eva any further into it. He told her to work on her other cases while he waited for intel from his sources. It technically wasn’t a lie—while he had heard back from some of them (the few that he had in London), they had nothing. Whether it was because they knew nothing or didn't want to say anything, it didn’t matter, and honestly, he didn't blame them. 

It was times like this he missed Mozzie's vast network of contacts.

He hadn't told Sara about his suspicions yet, not wanting to worry her, but he would have to update her soon. But for now, he wanted her to enjoy her evening, and hopefully tonight there would be no talk of work. Mr. and Mrs. Browning, old and wealthy clients of Sterling Bosch, had gifted Sara two tickets to the opening night of the latest exhibit at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Unlike the FBI, which had strict rules on gifts, Sterling Bosch and Sara had no trouble accepting them.

Neal was definitely warming up to the idea of working in private industry.

His arm looped through hers, he led her slowly through the gallery and stopped when a waiter came by with a tray of champagne. Taking a small sip, he glanced around, and smiled softly to himself. It wasn’t the Louvre, or even the Uffizi Gallery, but having the opportunity to be here at all, with Sara by his side, was more than he thought possible a year ago.

If he was honest, it was a life he thought he’d lost when Kate died.

He watched Sara closely as they wandered around the room. She was nothing like Kate, and maybe that made it easier, but he still had the same dreams—the same need to protect her and keep her happy.

Her eyes settled on a painting and he hesitated. He could give her so much if she’d let him…

“If you could have any painting here, which would it be?” he asked quietly and took a sip.

Sara glared at him. “Neal...”

He held up a hand. “Relax, I didn't mean it that way. I'm just curious. If you wanted, I could paint one. It doesn't even have to be one of these. Anything, really.”

“That would be a forgery.”

“Not necessarily. It's a reproduction, if I'm not claiming it as the original or intending to sell it. I could do a likeness, or a similar style if you'd like. Or just change the size and sign my name, if that would make you feel better.”

Sara took a sip of her champagne, and looked around the room, then back at Neal. “I'll think on it.”

Neal smiled and leaned in, brushing a tendril of hair behind her ear and kissing her softly. “Just let me know.” While he had tried to shower Kate with extravagant items and steal for her attention, now he just wanted to treat Sara—this time without the less-than-legal means.

Taking her hand, they started walking again. He soon noticed her eyes furtively looking around, but not at the artwork.

“Looking for someone?”

Sara stopped, startled and blushed. “Mr. and Mrs. Browning. They're a lovely couple, but they tend to talk your ear off, especially about their last vacation.”

Neal chuckled and took her empty flute and deposited it, along with his, on a passing waiter's tray. “Annoying, yes, I get that, but you look far too nervous about being shanghaied into a conversation on the wonders of the Egyptian pyramids.”

“I'm not—” she stopped when Neal gave her a pointed look. “Okay, fine, sorry. I... I just don't know how to explain you.”

Neal's eyebrows rose. “Explain me? You do realize that the Brownings probably have no idea who I am, so I doubt introducing me as your boyfriend would raise any flags.”

She sighed and Neal squeezed her hand. “Yes, I know that, but our relationship is a bit complicated.”

“Look, Sterling Bosch knows and they're okay with us. If the Brownings or anyone else have a problem with it, then it's their problem. Not ours. I know we're not conventional and some people might think I'm conning you, or taking advantage of you and the company in some way, but we know better.”

Sara smiled looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. “What about the head of security?”

Neal frowned. “What?” He turned at the silent nod of her head and saw a man in his forties wearing a suit like the one he'd often ridiculed Peter over, accompanied by the curator, staring at them.

“Have you been here before, Neal?” she asked underneath her breath quickly.

“Yes, but it's been years.”

“ _Neal!_ Why didn't you say something?” she hissed, and watched worriedly as the two men crossed the large expanse of the gallery. The curator, Nigel Carrington-Smith, was your typical polite, if somewhat stuffy Englishman (the name said it all). However, the head of security, Randall Shaw, was a bit more brash. Sara was afraid that despite her position, they were about to get kicked out.

“I didn't see a need to.”

Sara looked pained and glanced back at the men. “Please tell me you left empty-handed.”

Neal laughed and shook his head. “I never leave a museum empty-handed.” She glared at him and he grinned. “I bought a book, Sara. _From the gift shop._ Whenever I visit a museum, I try to pick up a catalogue on their latest exhibition.”

She closed her eyes and sighed in relief, then opened them and put on a polite smile as they approached. “Mr. Carrington-Smith, Mr. Shaw.” She nodded at them both and shook the curator's hand. “It's been a lovely evening.”

The curator smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Ellis. I was hoping we could talk in private?” He held his hand up as if to insist and lead her off, but Sara didn't move.

“Actually, I wanted to introduce you to Sterling Bosch's newest investigator, Neal Caffrey.”

Neal gave them an honest smile, since he knew better than to give them any reason to doubt his sincerity, and silently laughed at the look of surprise on their faces.

Sara continued before they could respond (not that Neal thought they knew how to—they looked too stunned by the bomb she’d just dropped), “And we're so lucky to have him. He worked the past four years with the FBI White Collar division.”

The look on Mr. Shaw's face was priceless. This time Neal had to cover his laugh with a cough.

“Oh, really? Mr. Caffrey is quite the catch then,” Mr. Carrington-Smith remarked, having quickly schooled his face to the appropriate calm and collected demeanor that his position required.

Sara risked a quick glance over at Neal, who was beaming now. “Yes, he is. Mr. Caffrey also provides security consultations and art authentication, as well. We find his services quite useful.”

“I would imagine,” Mr. Shaw replied curtly, eyeing Neal with a look of thinly veiled distrust.

Mr. Carrington-Smith stepped forward and shook Neal's hand. “Well then, Mr. Caffrey, it was a pleasure to meet you. I do hope the two of you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, we will, thank you,” Neal said smoothly, and gave them a reassuring smile. 

It was going to be an enjoyable night all right—especially as he led security around in circles. He knew they weren’t going to be left alone, so he might as well make them sweat as he stared at paintings for extended periods of time. 

Sara watched the men leave then turned back to Neal, leveling him with a glare. “Do I want to know what kind of reception we'd get at the Louvre?”

Neal shrugged, smiling brightly, and curled his fingers around her hand. He gently nudged her forward and started walking further into the gallery.

“Only one way to find out.”

*~*~*~*

If following the players wasn't getting him anywhere, Neal knew he had to come at the situation from a different angle. A painting had been stolen. That meant someone had either commissioned the heist, or the painting was going to be fenced. Given the rather unique nature of the painting, it was most likely the former. As Sara had noted, it wasn't something most people wanted hanging on their wall.

And most people didn't have the connections to pull such a theft off. There also wasn’t a phone number in the phone book or a website offering such services. 

No, you had to know someone. 

Collectors would do just about anything for a piece they wanted, and there were people who catered to them. Money was no object, and placing a middle man between them and a thief was how they got away with it.

Unfortunately, Neal didn't know the players in town.

So now he had to meet up with someone he'd worked with years ago. Sean could hopefully tell him who arranged such deals. There were legitimate people who bought art, antiquities, and arranged reproductions all for the right price. However, some of them also went a little further to acquire what their clients desired. Neal would bet that's who arranged the theft of _The Green Donkey_. 

He personally had never worked with one, preferring to stick to fences, and not someone who would likely rat him out in a heartbeat if ever caught. Plus, you never knew if the collector would resist the temptation to brag. All said, it was safer working with those he trusted.

Neal exited King’s Cross station and walked around the block, making his way to the KERB market. He was set to meet Sean there, and he made sure to keep his head down and keep a low profile. He might be working for the good guys, but his instincts were still to avoid detection. Besides, he had to keep up appearances, and Sean had to believe they were on the same side.

Turning onto King's Boulevard, Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and casually walked up the street toward the food trucks. There was construction on one side of the street, and people milling around the area, chatting away excitedly, their hands full of various treats and delicacies. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a camera on a light pole and kept walking, never letting it get a clear shot of his face. Peter would say he was being paranoid, but Mozzie would approve.

Neal smiled as he thought of his life, feeling the rush and thrill of the con and at the same time, the investigation, a compromise between his two prior lives. While Mozzie had been disappointed that he'd chosen to leave, he was happy that Neal hadn't decided to permanently work for The Man. That dream had flown out the window once Peter had taken the ASAC position and Neal had realized that the days of team Caffrey & Burke were long over. Not just because Peter didn't trust him anymore, but because everyone had to move on, including him.

However, there would always be times that he missed the fun that came with the silent game of cat and mouse—evading cameras and the police, and finding new ways to steal or get away with something. Meetings were always dangerous though, never knowing if the other person was being followed or if it was a trap. He had nothing to worry about now, but it was like an old habit that you couldn't break. He would always be cautious. 

Spotting their prearranged meeting place was easy—an Indian food truck that was anything but ordinary. It looked like India was spilling out of the van, vibrant colors everywhere, from the signs to the flowers and produce sprawled across every surface. 

He slowed down when he neared it and scanned the area, taking careful note of everything, from the surrounding food trucks to the people sitting on the curbs and benches. No one looked suspicious or out of place.

The food truck was doing good business, with a line about eight to ten people long. Neal studied the men in the line, quickly spotting Sean even though he hadn't seen the guy in almost ten years. The thin, lanky redhead stood slumped, shoulders low, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his faded green jacket.

Neal had a sudden mental image of a little boy with bright red hair and freckles, and couldn’t help but wonder if his and Sara's kids would take after her and her coloring— which unfortunately could turn out like poor Sean’s. He loved Sara's dark red hair, but acknowledged that sometimes it didn't work well on a boy, especially when it was bright red.

Sean was third from the end, and Neal stepped up to join the queue. He read over the small menu, and waited patiently for his turn. When he made it to the front, he ordered and paid for his jhal muri, then made eye contact with Sean, who was now waiting off to the side for his food. The other man gave him a short nod and Neal returned his attention back to the two people serving up the food.

A few minutes later, he took his food and walked down the street, digging into the cone with his spoon. Sean was ten feet ahead of him, nearly dragging his feet as he shoveled the rice mixture in his mouth. Neal caught up with him in a few long strides, and then matched the man's slow stroll.

Sean wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It's been a while. I have to admit I was surprised to hear you were in town.” 

Neal focused on his food, keeping his head down. “I needed a change. Kate… she’s gone. I… well, once I could leave New York, I was on the next flight out.”

“I heard. I’m sorry, man.” 

Neal hated using Kate as his backstory, but that's what people expected, that was the Neal Caffrey they remembered. The wild and young con man hung up on a girl.

“Are you still available to help?” he carefully asked, wording it just so. They were out in the open.

Sean nodded. “What do you need?”

“Names. I'm looking for art buyers.” Neal juggled the bottle of water in his hands, trying not to drop the jhal muri as he opened it.

“Henry Barrett would be your guy. Do you need me to set up a meeting?”

Neal hesitated and sipped at his water. He could move this forward, or wait and see what he could find on Barrett first. Playing his cards too early could be risky.

Shaking his head, he capped the water bottle. “Not yet. I'm still settling in, but I'll contact you when I'm ready. Let me know if anyone needs my work.”

“Will do.”

With that, Sean was gone and Neal walked a few blocks until he'd finished his lunch. Tossing the empty cone into a trashcan, he pondered his next move. Neal Caffrey might have to enter the business again.

*~*~*~*

“Barrett? I've heard of him.”

Neal hadn't spent much time at the office since he'd been there, preferring to work from home when he had to do research. Otherwise he was out doing recon for security consults. But with the buyer's name in hand, he wanted to see what Eva and Sterling Bosch knew of the guy.

“Henry Barrett’s going to have a legitimate business front; however, there are always rumors and suspicions running rampant in the art world about shadier dealings. I’m hoping Sterling Bosch has heard something.”

Eva tapped on the keys to her laptop and pulled up some screens. He read over her shoulder and found the usual background normally available on the internet. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Barrett worked with all art mediums and traveled the world for clients. 

Next, Eva clicked on in-house reports to see if his name came up. There was one hit, an art authentication report on a painting that their client had bought through Barrett. The first authenticator had declared it a forgery, but after additional tests and a consultation by another authenticator, it was finally signed off as the original.

Neal frowned. For an art buyer, that was highly unusual. They knew their art and usually could detect forgeries themselves. For Barrett, it was risky to sell off a forgery because it could shine light on his other illegal activities. Beyond that, it would hurt his reputation. 

He reread the report, stopping at the name of the painting. There was no way to know every painting, but he hadn't heard of it.

“What do we know about the painting?”

With a few more keystrokes, they had their answer. It didn't exist. The provenance was probably a forgery too, and the tests faked, if Neal had to guess. Someone, somewhere in the chain, worked for Barrett.

Neal could set up a meeting with Barrett, but he was more interested in his connections. Who did he hire to steal? Or did he use another middle man? He wouldn't just hire Neal onto a team. They needed Barrett to go about his normal business and reach out to his contacts.

This wasn't the time to send someone in to play the greedy collector and raise suspicions. That would be too risky. It had to be a regular client that he trusted, that he would do anything for.

“Scroll up to the top. Who was the client?”

Eva quickly jumped back to the beginning and he smiled wide once he caught the names.

Edward and Patricia Browning.

He'd hate to tell them they'd bought a forgery, but he'd bet they'd go along with his plan to take Barrett down.

*~*~*~*

“Neal, they're in their _seventies!_ ” Sara exclaimed after Neal had told her his plan.

He sat in her office, playing with the small Lego Empire State Building he'd given her. “Exactly. He's already pulled one over them, and he'll do it again. They tell him that they want a certain painting and will pay anything for it, and he'll get it for them. They're old and rich, and know nothing could ever happen to them.”

“As if he would believe that all of a sudden they don't care how he does it?” she questioned, looking doubtful.

Neal snapped the spire back onto the building, put it down on her desk, and leaned forward. “Trust me, he's not going to be suspicious of a couple in their seventies. Especially not one made of old money.”

Sara sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Let me think on it. It's bad enough we have to tell them they were scammed. I don't want to take advantage of them, and certainly don't want them hurt. I want to see if we can come up with something that doesn't involve using senior citizens.”

“They're not going to get hurt. It's just a meeting, something they have with him all the time. We just have to follow him afterwards.” 

“Would Peter approve?”

Neal winced. “Probably not.”

She gave him a pointed look that Neal knew all too well. He wasn't going to win this one. “Come up with another solution—one that doesn't hinge on the Brownings.”

Nodding, Neal stood up. He'd heard the lecture before. It felt odd hearing it from Sara, but knew she wasn't trying to punish him. He'd known when he took this job, that as his boss, she could and would tell him what to do, and what not to do as well.

“I'm going to head home. I have some other stuff to work on.”

Sara shot him a tight smile and he paused, feeling a little uncomfortable at the turn in their conversation. It hadn't been a fight so much as a disagreement, and even that didn't sit well with him.

“How's risotto for dinner?”

Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes brightened. “Sounds good.”

They smiled at each other, silently apologizing and forgiving the other. This was simply something they had to get used to. Neal was finally starting to understand why the littlest of disagreements had upset Peter so much. It took a lot more than sex and romance to make a relationship work.

*~*~*~*

Three days later, Neal grunted as he shimmied through a ventilation shaft. He would never admit it to anyone, but he really was getting too old for this. He'd still got a thrill, sneaking his way into a building and getting out unnoticed with the goods, but there was something to be said for walking in rather than squeezing through a narrow duct. It did remind him that he needed to find a pool near their flat in order to keep in shape. Lately his only exercise had been in bed—not that he minded that, he thought, smiling to himself, but his job depended on his figure and his stamina.

He was pretty sure Sara wouldn't mind, anyway.

Tonight, in fact, they had plans, since Sara had been working late all week. Neal also knew she liked his 'uniform' as it were, and he made it a point to tease her that she enjoyed dating a thief more than she admitted.

There were a lot of things she wouldn't admit to, actually, and— _oh, SHIT!_

Neal froze in place, and listened carefully for any sign of the security guard, but sighed in relief when he heard nothing. Pulling out his cell phone from his leather jacket, he quickly punched the button to call home and waited nervously as it rang. After four rings, Sara picked up and he blurted out without greeting, “Can you go turn off the oven?”

“Hello to you, too, Caffrey. And I already did when I got home. There's nothing in there, so do I want to know why it was on?”

He sighed, and lowered his voice. It wouldn’t do him any good to get caught now, even if he was there officially. “I was aging a painting.”

There was a long beat of silence as she took that in. “Why were you aging a painting?”

“Eva wanted to see what a forgery looked like, to see if she could tell the difference. Call it a quiz, if you will. You wanted me to train her, remember?” Mentally, he banged his head against the metal duct, knowing this wasn't the right time to get into this. There were some things Sara knew he needed to do for his job, but they had agreed that he would stick to painting only originals from now on.

“Her job is to recover paintings, not authenticate them.”

Neal winced at the sharp tone in her voice and was suddenly grateful that he was several miles away. “It's still good for her to know. Would you rather she get duped by a forgery and present it to the client?”

“We always authenticate before returning a piece to their owner, Neal, and you know that,” she replied tersely, then sighed. “You know she has a crush on you, right?”

Switching to his ear piece and returning his cell phone to his jacket, he continued his trek through the air vent. “Yes, I'm quite aware of that. But you have nothing to worry about, I think she's as mortified as I am about the whole thing. She knows quite well that you'd kill us both if anything happened.”

Sara laughed and Neal had to smile. Despite all the ups and downs in their relationship, they both felt secure in it now, and had no reason to be jealous of anyone else or have any reason to believe the other was going to leave. Although the latter had been more a promise on Neal's part.

“And don't worry about the painting, it's going to be used for the Chelsea Arts Club job next week. There's a reason to my madness, my dear.”

Sara snorted. “I'm not so sure about that some days. But you do realize that a forgery is not required for a security consult? You just have to get in and out. A simple note would suffice.”

Neal pouted, even though she couldn't see him. “Now where's the fun in that? I have to test everything, including the frame's sensors.” He grunted as he turned a corner and spotted his target and nearly wept in relief.

“Neal, where are you?”

“I'm in the air ducts. If they had been two inches smaller, I might have called off the whole thing and given them a pass.”

“No, you wouldn't. You'd have found another way in. I know you, and you don't give up that easily.”

Grinning, he had to give it to her, she did know him well. And he loved the fact that she didn't blink an eye that he was calling from an air vent. “Okay, true, and I'm beginning to wonder if I should have.”

“How much longer?”

He heard the clink of the ice machine over the phone, and silently cursed at the reminder of what he was missing. Night jobs were a whole lot easier when you didn't have someone waiting on you at home. But he was also the happiest he'd been in a long time, so he really couldn't complain. Neal _wanted_ to be home with Sara. 

Home. It was still a foreign concept to him.

“An hour, tops. I'm about to drop in, and then I should be out in five to ten minutes.” At least he could disable the security on the fire exit and leave without squeezing through the air vents again.

“Unless you're caught.”

It was Neal's turn to snort, which he quickly covered up with a cough. “Unlikely. The security guard weighs three hundred pounds and looked more interested in his foot-long sub than the monitors.”

“Just be careful.”

“Always am,” he replied, his mouth turning up in a smile. It was nice to have someone concerned about him—and not in a general ‘don’t do something stupid’ way. 

“Okay, see you later.”

“Later,” he echoed and pushed the button to end the call. He glanced down the shaft, eyed the air vent that led to the room below, and grinned. Showtime.

*~*~*~*

“That is not a real word,” Sara protested as Neal laid down the 'z' tile on the board.

Chuckling, he shook his head and counted up his score. “Oh, it is, trust me. You learn a whole new vocabulary playing with Mozzie. 'Zax' is nothing compared to the stuff he came up with.”

Sara muttered some choice words about the balding conman and stared once more at her tiles and then back at the stacks of letters on the Upwords board. It was a little easier than its parent, Scrabble, and she normally could hold her own playing the game, but it was pathetic how badly Neal was clobbering her.

“Have you heard from him?”

Neal looked up and a strange expression crossed his face. Sara couldn't tell if it was pain, or disappointment and bitterness.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, no. But he did say he was going to go off to find his inner chi or something. Rediscover his inner flimflam. I think as much as he loved New York, he was ready for a change.”

There had been some hurt and mixed feelings between Neal and Mozzie when he'd made his decision to move to London. For a while during the Hagen fiasco, Neal had embraced his criminal side, much to Mozzie's delight, but the desire to settle down had been too much for him to overcome. In the end, Neal had wanted the life more than he wanted the thrill.

“Will he ever quit?” she asked as she found a spot to play, grinning triumphantly.

Neal hesitated a moment before counting her score and writing it down. “I don't think Mozzie knows any other life. But deep down, I think he does want to settle down—find his island paradise.”

Sara took a sip of her wine, in an effort to keep herself from blurting out the wrong thing. They both knew how she felt about island paradises.

“He'll find it one day.” He smiled and his gaze softened. “I found mine.”

“Oh, really?” She lifted an eyebrow. “London is an island paradise?”

He shrugged lightly, and his eyes lit up in quiet amusement. “Well, Great Britain is technically an island, isn't it?”

It was easy for him to say that now that he was here and the decision made, but she was afraid that one day he would come to regret it. The love in his eyes made her feel warm and happy, feelings she'd been reluctant to admit that she craved, and had missed since she'd left New York. It was strange how a man she once cursed and watched with weary caution was now someone she shared her life with.

“Well, I'm not so sure about the beaches and the drinks with little umbrellas, but London certainly has plenty of tea if you're interested,” she deflected, and looked away to grab new letters.

In the time that they corresponded with each other, it had become apparent to her that Neal would always be a part of her life. She just hadn’t known how far to let him in, though.

As it got closer to his release date, she had been torn. Did she want to ask him to come to London? Or would he want to stay in New York? He'd let her go so she would be happy, but would he want her to come back now? Maybe he wasn't cut out for a life on the straight and narrow. Or maybe he didn't love her that much.

“I'm more interested in the company.”

The corner of her mouth curled up. “So you're saying I'm better company than Mozzie?” 

Neal chuckled. “As if you even have to ask.”

Sara bit her lip. “I don't know... you two have quite the history.” She hadn't meant to really go here, but maybe it was time they talked about it. Mozzie would always be one big reminder of his past life and someday he might be enough to tempt Neal back. 

Neal raised his glass and swirled the wine a bit, staring into it distractedly. “Mozzie and I have had our differences. I'll always trust him with my life, but ultimately we want two different things.”

“People can surprise you.”

Neal cocked his head to the side and looked at her thoughtfully. “That they can.”

*~*~*~*

One week later, Neal had finally come up with another plan. He had understood Sara’s reservations about using the Brownings, even though he saw little chance of them getting hurt. But then again, knowing that one man was already dead, maybe it was better to be safe than sorry. Neal hadn't told her about Jimmy yet, and knew she wouldn't be happy when she found out.

He didn't like withholding it from her, and chose not to think of it as keeping secrets. Even though she understood the danger in their line of work, Neal realized that they had to draw a line between employee and boyfriend. This was his world, and while he was not a fan of violence or guns, he wasn't immune to it, and had been on the receiving end of such an occasion several times over the years. 

It sounded cold to say you got used to it, but it was the truth. (Although that one time with the crossbow had been a bit startling.)

Neal knew people, though, and he knew Henry Barrett wasn’t dangerous. He and Eva had worked hard to find some of his other clients, but they were as elusive as their thief. They managed to find sales that Barrett brokered, but never any names. So it became obvious that the Brownings were still their best shot at getting a meeting.

In the end, they decided that they would approach the couple and their two sons, and explain the situation regarding Barrett. Their children would arrange the meeting with him, with the story that they wanted to surprise their parents with a new painting, one they'd wanted for years. This would keep the elder Brownings out of the mix, and add some credibility to the fact that they had never asked him to do this before. 

It would be hard for Barrett to resist. The Brownings wouldn't dare turn in their own children if they ever found out it was stolen, and would quietly hide the painting away.

He was on his way to meet them now, but was running late. Neal was nowhere near as familiar with London as he was with New York, and had been exploring Hampstead, where the Brownings lived, all morning. Between visiting the Keats House, the Camden Arts Centre and one of the many local bookshops, he had lost track of time.

It was a place he would love to live, but he and Sara would never be able to afford it, not unless he really went back into the business. And he didn't think that would fly with Sara. 

He hurriedly walked through the crowd of people on the sidewalk when he felt someone brush past him. Instinct told him that it hadn’t merely been a casual bump of a passerby. He spun around quickly, and felt his pockets at the same time. No one obvious jumped out at him and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found his wallet still there. But he carefully checked his pockets just to make sure, and wondered if he was doomed to a life of paranoia like Mozzie. 

When his fingers felt the small piece of paper, a heavy feeling of dread filled him, and he pulled the paper out carefully. Unfolding it, he found one word written on the back of a takeaway receipt.

_Gregory._

He looked around closely at the people milling around, even though he knew his source was long gone. His gut clenched as the significance of the name clicked in his head and all the pieces fit together.

They weren't going to need the Brownings anymore. And it was a damn good thing Sara had persuaded him against enlisting them last week, because Barrett was the least of their worries now.

It was time to talk to Sara and come clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A zax is a hand tool used by a slater for cutting, trimming and punching nail holes in slate. (and is the highest possible Scrabble score for a three-letter word)


	4. Chapter Three

A few hours after returning home, Neal was punching and kneading dough to make some dinner rolls. He knew Mozzie would say he had lost his edge—that he was domesticated by the life he now lived with Sara (and he’d probably throw in a few snide remarks about the Suit while he was at it). The routines were still new, since he'd only been there a little over a month. But he was already settling in and feeling at home in their flat. They didn't refer to it as 'her place' but 'theirs.' Neal knew this wouldn't be temporary, as much as Mozzie hoped it would be.

It had been a difficult, yet strangely easy, decision to move to London. He'd missed Sara, and after four years in New York he needed out. Neal loved the city, but he'd been trapped and on a short leash. People had expected him to fly the coop and go back to his old ways. He'd been tempted—at least to travel. The cons... they were part of him and probably always would be, but he was tired of running, of looking over his shoulder, and most importantly, of lying to those closest to him.

The Hagen situation had left him drained him by the end, and for once he wanted to go home without a secret to protect or a mystery to solve.

He stopped kneading and sighed. Neal knew Dr. Summers had been wrong—because he _had_ changed. When Peter took his deal, she might have been right, but Peter, Elizabeth, Sara... they all had helped him find what he really wanted in life. They had been the instruments of change.

Was it so bad that he had a real job? A place to call home? A woman who opened her heart to him even after everything he'd put her through?

There were some things in life that were more important than stealing a painting or finding lost treasures. But Neal wondered if he would always be pulled back in.

Gregory was trouble. 

He braced his arms on the counter and closed his eyes, hanging his head. This time it wasn't the team of Caffrey and Burke miraculously nabbing the bad guy and moving on to the next case without a care as to what happened the next day—or the week after. It had been easy to ride the high of the win, but they had never looked at the bigger picture beyond a closure rate.

Maybe now he understood why Elizabeth had worried so much about Peter's safety. But Peter had his badge to protect him, while Neal had nothing. Gregory would come after him... and Sara. He wouldn't allow that. It was that simple.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and nodded to himself. There was only one thing to do, and even Mozzie would agree with him on this one. Some lines he would not cross, especially if it kept those close to him safe.

Moving the dough to a bowl, he covered it up to let it rise. With that done, he started getting out the ingredients for dinner. He still had a few hours before Sara would be home, and he needed to keep himself busy and distracted from the situation. There wasn't anything he could do about it now.

Later, after the soup was simmering on the stove, he sat down to paint. He had no subject in mind, no grand plan other than a desire to let his mind roam free, and his brush to dance across the canvas. When he found himself staring at the gentle curve of Sara's face, he smiled. Normally he relished the challenge of a forgery, but the image of Sara laughing and smiling filled him with something—happiness, love... hope. It made him even more confident that he had made the right choice, had finally done the right thing with his life. 

“I hope that's not your other girlfriend.”

Startled, Neal looked up and grinned. “You caught me. I met her at this little coffee shop in Chiswick a couple of weeks ago. It was love at first sight. Unfortunately, she has a crap apartment and a roommate that needs to learn about personal hygiene.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at that. “Right... it's a good thing I keep you around for your cooking, or you'd be out on the street.”

“You're the one who claims she's fine on her own.” He cleaned off his brush, set it down, and followed her back to the kitchen.

“Doesn't mean I _like_ to cook." She walked over to the cabinet that held the wine glasses and pulled two out. "Do you know how many women would kill to have a guy like you?”

Neal held a hand up to his chest and let out a pained gasp. “I knew it! You're only interested in what these hands can do." He winked at her and grinned salaciously. 

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, I'm starving.”

As he laid out the silverware on the table, he glanced at her. “We need to talk about the Chagall.”

“Oh?” She carried their glasses to the table. “That doesn't sound good. You didn't call after your meeting with the Brownings. Did they not agree to go along?”

He sighed. “I didn't ask them. I explained the forgery Barrett sold them, and asked them not to contact him or tell anyone until we settled everything.” They sat down and he waited until she took a long drink of her wine. “I got a tip from a source today. A man named Isaac Gregory stole the Chagall. He's not one to be messed with. Take Keller, without the insanity, but much deadlier, and way more connected. He has an extensive network across Europe." 

Her eyes widened at the mention of Keller.

Neal knew bringing Keller up would get the point across, but regretted the fact that in order to do so, he had to remind her of a time when she hadn't been so sure of him. He might have decided to stay, but it had been too late for their relationship then. And while they might have decided to be friends later on, any talk of treasure, Keller or fleeing the country was something they'd avoided.

"There’s something else you need to know. I should have told you earlier, but I didn't want to alarm you.” He paused and took a deep breath. “He killed one member of his crew, the guy who tripped the security during the robbery.”

Sara's hand froze in mid-air as she blew on her soup.

“I already told Eva last week to work on her other cases. I don't want her near this one. In fact, I think we should just talk to Interpol and cut our losses. The Chagall is long gone and we'll never see it again.”

Her head cocked to the side and she looked at him intently. “Have you worked with him before?”

He shook his head. “Never. I prefer working alone, or at least with those I trust.”

“And you can't trust him.”

Neal hesitated. “As long as you do your job, he's good. But if for any reason he finds fault or even thinks you're going to compromise the job or him, then it's best that you're not around when that happens. If you're not dead, you're burned. And no one dares talk either. It's a miracle one of my sources even gave me his name.”

“Then why do people work for him?”

Neal had to stop and think carefully before answering. He could tell that she was trying to understand and accept his past, how he and others would work with people like Keller and risk their lives for a painting or some other trinket. Treasure aside, she had only seen him working with Peter—trying to do the right thing. Even though things went sideways more often than not, he'd always had the best intentions at heart, like when he got Peter out of jail—only to end up dealing with Hagen.

This however, was a stark reminder that he did have a past, one serious enough to have sent him to prison. It wasn't a laughing matter, despite how much he tried to play it off with his jokes and smiles. He brushed aside any talk of the scar on his leg from his time on Cape Verde—he didn't want her worrying, and wondering if his past would follow him around or if the next recovery would result in something worse. She might be aware of the danger of their profession, but she’d never dealt with men like Gregory before. He hoped she never would. 

“Gregory hires the best. If you get in and don't mess up, you're golden. He's good about splitting the score fairly.”

“Well, yeah, I should think the fear of death would make you do your job right, but I still wouldn't want to work for him.” Sara went for her wine again with a disconcerted expression. “I'll call Reena and have her come to the office.”

He nodded. “Good. I know you don't like giving in like this, but I think it's best thing to do. I don't even want to mess with him.”

She gave him a strained smile. “Even I'm not that much of a bitch, Caffrey. I'm not going to risk your neck.”

“Thanks, I think.” He frowned. “So it's my hands and my neck you like then? Anything else I need to protect?”

“Neal, shut up and eat.”

He laughed and felt a weight lift off his shoulders when he saw her grin. They could get past this. After all, if she could forgive (if not forget) about the Raphael, then this too would be forgotten before long.

*~*~*~*

From his position on the sleek black couch along the floor to ceiling windows in Sara's office, Neal watched as Reena Phillips was shown in by Sara's assistant. Reena was one of the few friends Sara had made in London. It was hard for Sara, as the boss, to hang out with those below her. So after working a case with Interpol and meeting Reena, they had hit it off. He'd briefly heard about her over the past year, and was curious to meet her.

She was tall, and her black hair was striking against her pale skin and light blue eyes. There was an air about her that let you know she meant business and didn't appreciate being yanked around. He could see why the two had become fast friends. Reena was also impeccably dressed, her long legs accentuated by slim gray pants and high heels that probably cost a fortune. Neal could only imagine how many pairs the two owned between them.

“Neal Caffrey, as I live and breathe.”

He stood up and brushed a hand over his suit, and straightened his tie, before walking toward her. They shook hands and her eyes swept over him over, smirking. “Do you know how many colleagues of mine have dreamt of the day they'd meet you? In handcuffs, might I add.”

Neal flashed a grin at her. “I never knew Interpol was so kinky. Am I wearing anything besides handcuffs in these dreams?"

Reena rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. “When Sara told me about your deal with the FBI and that she'd worked with you, I was surprised. But not as surprised when she called me up to make sure that Interpol wouldn't block your work visa.” 

She glanced at Sara who was watching them with a concerned expression. “Or that you'd dated. I wasn't sure whether to believe you were reformed or if I should block you from the country." 

Neal schooled his face and tried to project that of a calm and reasonable man. He would be lying if he said the woman standing before him didn't make him nervous. Not just from an official standpoint, although Interpol technically was not law enforcement—but on a personal level, someone who could influence Sara. He was pretty sure that if Sara's parents had been alive, they would have probably discouraged their daughter from shacking up with an ex-con.

“I think our relationship surprised everyone, including us. But I promise you that I do not intend to hurt Sara. I've been lucky enough that she's given me a chance to prove to her that I can be trusted, that I'm worth the effort.” He glanced at Sara and smiled softly. He knew how much she had risked to stand up for him, and he was thankful.

Reena nodded. “I'm glad to hear that. So let's get down to business. Sara didn't tell me much, except that you had a case we needed to discuss.”

Neal shifted, and his whole demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. “I'm sure you're aware of the Chagall that was stolen from the Tate two weeks ago?” At her affirmative nod, he continued. “I learned that Isaac Gregory was behind it. I got the names of two guys in his crew. One of them, Jimmy Owens, set off the alarms, and hasn't been home or seen since. He's most likely dead.”

“Shit.” Reena dropped her arms and shook her head. “You sure Jimmy hasn't just skipped town?”

Neal gave her a look. “I'm pretty sure.”

They both knew where and _how_ he'd gotten his intel, but neither one of them said anything. This was how law enforcement worked—they got tips from those that didn't need or have to use search warrants. Peter had tried to reign in Neal's creative investigative habits, but all too often they relied on his and Mozzie's information.

“We'll keep an eye out for him in the morgues. What else do you have on Gregory? This guy is a thorn in our side. He's clean. We've never been able to pin anything on him, especially since no one will turn on him.”

“I'm afraid that's it. No one's talking.”

Reena started pacing. “Anything on the Chagall? Who might have wanted it?”

He shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have the name of a buyer that could be involved, Henry Barrett, but I have no proof and can't find the names of any of his clients.”

She stopped halfway to the window and smiled sadly at Sara. “It'll be hard to get a warrant for his clients without proof. And unfortunately, we'll probably never be able to connect Gregory to the Chagall. You know as well as I do that only five to ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. It's possible if we ever get him, we could try to get the buyer, but I doubt he'd ever give that up.” 

Sara shrugged in defeat. “At this point, I just want to see the guy arrested.”

“That's our goal.” Reena turned back to Neal. “We need to know about his next job. Do you think you could get close to Gregory?”

Neal glanced at Sara, whose eyes widened, then back at Reena, his expression stony. “I once worked with a guy like him, and it didn't turn out well. My friends _were_ hurt because of my past with him. There is no way I'm going to let that happen again if I can help it. So no, I won't get close to him.”

They locked eyes, and Reena smiled grimly. Neal could see that he'd gained her trust now.

“Fine. Can you at least keep an ear out for what Gregory might be doing next? Maybe what kind of job, who he's recruiting, or what supplies he's going after.”

Neal hesitated, weighing the risks, then gave her a stiff nod. “I can do that, but don't get your hopes up. Like I said—no one's talking. They're smart, they know better.”

“This is more than we've ever had before. It'd be great if we could tie him to Jimmy's death, but I'm sure he had someone else do it. We'll just have to hope to catch him in the act next time.”

“I'm going to need something from you though.”

“Name it.”

Neal handed her a small piece of paper. “Jimmy had a date and time written down. It could have been a meet. I'm sure you can access video to see who showed up. I need to know who else he's working with.”

Reena nodded. “I can do that. We'll run facial recognition and see who we're dealing with. I'll let you know when we have something.”

She turned to leave, and glanced at Sara. “Let's have lunch soon, okay?”

Sara smiled. “That sounds good.”

Neal watched Reena walk out, then faced Sara. “You okay?”

Collapsing in her chair, Sara let out a low laugh. “You mean, am I okay with you still working this case, when we both agreed it wasn't worth risking your life over? Oh sure, I'm great.”

“I'm not going to go near him, Sara. I'll just talk with some people, watch his men. Quite honestly, I'm not sure I'll get anywhere.” He wanted to wrap his arms around her, and he never hated glass walls as much as he did now. 

“I don't know whether to hope you get the guy or that you don't.”

Neal sighed. He knew how she felt.

*~*~*~*

A blanket was spread out on the lawn of Hyde Park, only a few blocks from their flat, and Sara sat holding a takeaway cup of coffee. It was a gorgeous fall day in London. A little cool, but Neal had insisted they take advantage of the nice weather. He had put together some sandwiches, pasta salad, fruits, crackers and cheese, and picked up a pear frangipane tart from a bakery down the street.

Sara let out a small groan, and held a hand to her stomach. “If this is what I have to look forward to, I think I'm going to need to start working out more. Between this and the way you cook at home, I'll gain twenty pounds and have to buy a whole new wardrobe. And while I love shopping, I don't want that to be the motivating factor to do so.”

Neal laughed and packed away the last of the containers of the picnic he'd prepared for them. “We all know you don't need another excuse to go shopping.” He laid down and grinned up at her.

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. “So is this what you expected? I know it hasn't been long, but...”

He shifted, crossing an arm underneath his head. “You mean, moving to London? Or leaving the life of crime?”

Sara shrugged. “Both, I guess. I mean, sure, you worked for the FBI, but this time it's your choice.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have impulse control.” He winked at her and she chuckled. “Do I still think about how to steal things? Yes, but now I'm making an honest living out of it.”

He paused and thought a moment. “I didn't come here for the job—I could have done that in New York. No, I came here to do this.” Neal reached out with his other hand and ran it softly over her leg. “To go out on a Saturday and have a picnic, or to stay in bed all morning and make love to you.”

His hand stilled and he looked her in the eye. “A lot of con men only ever think about the last score. For some, it means a lot of money, for others it's life on an exotic island. But it's always about retiring. This is my retirement, Sara."

She froze, eyes widening slightly and he could see the fear in her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't care, he knew that. But they had avoided talk of the future, instead comfortably falling into their routines and taking it one day at a time. They both knew where it was going, had known from the moment Sara offered him the job and opened up her home. That didn't quell the fear though. It was a big leap for both of them, and it was time for him to be honest—with her and himself.

“The past four years I was battling the eternal question of whether I was a con or a man. Peter kept trying to tell me and show me that there was more to life than crime, and on some level I always knew he was right. It just took time for me to realize that it _was_ possible. I admit it hasn't been the smoothest road, but it's what I've wanted all along."

Neal remembered how angry he'd been with Peter, and how easy it had been to steal the money, and fall back into his old ways. Everyone expected that of him, but he’d always wanted to prove them wrong.

“Either I went straight or I would end up in prison again. I chose option A.”

He reached for her hand. “I know you're thinking ' _But will it last? Will he ever regret it?_ ' I can't give you an answer to that, but I can promise you that I am going to try my hardest to be the man you want me to be. The man _I_ want to be.

“Can you accept that?”

It was like watching water flow from a dam as the tension in her shoulders melted away, her hand relaxed in his, and her eyes softened. What was left was a little girl, forever traumatized by her sister Emily’s sudden disappearance and embattled with life's harshest realities, finally accepting the possibility of happiness, of a life filled with love. 

Sara slowly nodded and smiled. “Yes,” she whispered.

Neal ran a thumb over the palm of her hand, and looked up at her, eyes shining. He brought her hand up to his mouth, and gently pressed his lips against the delicate curve of her wrist. 

Everything would be okay.

*~*~*~*

Neal made his way through the throng of tourists lining up to get into the Victoria & Albert Museum and the National History Museum. Sara had told him that lots of students would be out on break, but he hadn't expected them to be hitting the museums. He couldn't imagine what the summer would be like, and found it ironic since he used to take advantage of crowds. Getting lost in a sea of people was a great way to avoid police or cameras.

He bumped into a young girl, probably sixteen or so, and he put his hand out to steady her as she stumbled into her friends. “Pardon me.”

She looked up and he gave her a bright smile, his hand still resting on her shoulder. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly. “It's...it's fine.” One of her friends giggled and he grinned.

“Enjoy the museum. They have a fantastic print collection. One of the best.”

Nodding at her friends, he moved aside and checked the street before cutting across. Thankfully the little cafe he was heading to was off on a side street and hopefully not overrun with students. _Raison D'etre_ had some of the best coffee and French pastries this side of the channel. Pretty soon he would be considered a regular here at the rate he visited.

He walked to the counter and when the young lady working looked over, her eyes lit up and she smiled. “Neal! Coffee?”

“Of course, Olivia. What else would I come for? I'll take an almond croissant, as well, please.” He moved to the end of the counter and pulled out his wallet. Mark, who was working the register, rang him up and Olivia came up to him a moment later with the coffee and croissant. “Enjoy.”

“Always. Thank you.” He smiled warmly and she blushed.

Heading back outside, he took a seat at one of the tables and sighed. You couldn't do this in downtown Manhattan. Not unless you walked down to Bryant or Central Park. In a few weeks he hoped to take Sara to Paris for her birthday, and while it would certainly be cooler, he couldn't wait to take Sara to some of his favorite patisseries.

He sat back, sipping his coffee as he watched the locals stroll down the street and visit the shops. The fishmonger across the street was doing good business and he planned to pick some fish up for dinner that night.

“Nicholas Halden.”

Neal looked up at the man suddenly standing over him. A patch of clouds shifted and the sun peeked through, causing him to squint and he held up a hand to his eyes. The man was tall, casually dressed, but Neal saw the pressed collar of a nice shirt underneath his jacket and a watch on his wrist that looked expensive.

“Or should I say Steve Tabernacle? Or George Devore?” The man pulled out the chair across from Neal and sat down at the small table.

It was easy to fall into the guise of a thief and con man, the role a second skin to him, but the mention of his aliases made him pause and calculate his position. It was an open street, with barely any traffic but plenty of civilians. There was little cover. Neal did not liked being surprised by those he did not know, but he had no choice but to engage him. 

The man had a light accent, but too soft to discern. Most likely in an effort not to be identified. Neal doubted that he was with the police or Interpol, and his contacts would not have sent someone without telling him first.

“It depends. Who are you looking for?” Neal answered smoothly, smiling wide.

The man chuckled and nodded, the corner of his mouth quirked slightly. “Ah yes... I was actually hoping to talk to Neal Caffrey. I heard he's been asking around about me.”

Neal's heart sped up, but he kept his face neutral. “Gregory, I presume?”

Ignoring him, he continued. “Now to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence here in London? Tired of the States?”

Grinning, Neal shrugged. “The wine's cheaper.”

Gregory smiled tightly. “I see. Or is it that you burned all your contacts working with the FBI?”

His heart skipped a beat, but Neal kept calm. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they say. You wouldn't believe what I managed to do under their noses. I once stole nearly two million in gold coins and managed to point them in the other direction.”

“Is that so?” Gregory raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “What about your new job with Sterling Bosch Insurance?”

It was a good thing Neal had plenty of undercover experience with the FBI, especially the occasional time or two when his cover had been blown and he'd had to think on his feet to save his life and the operation. This was no different, except this time he had Sara's safety to consider. The job be damned, he wanted Gregory's attention off of Sara.

Neal let out a light laugh and crossed his arms. “That was a stroke of luck. They hired me for security consultation and art authentication. Can you imagine? I'm already planning on switching out a painting next week. Where else can you get a job that's legitimate _and_ lets you steal at the same time?”

Gregory chuckled and smiled. “Not many places.”

“I have to be a little more cautious with the security jobs. It's more of a waiting game with those. I can't go back in right away.”

“Then what is your interest in me?”

Neal picked up his coffee, trying to relax, or at least appear that way, and mentally applauded himself at defusing the situation. “I cannot afford to do too much too soon, or else someone will notice. Plus, the job doesn't pay that well. I was hoping to pick up some side jobs. I heard you were in town.”

Gregory studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Perchance, I might have something that would be mutually beneficial to both of us.” He paused. “I am in need of a forgery. A client is reluctant to give up their painting.”

“They usually are.”

“This particular piece has been in contention for several months and the courts have ruled that it must be returned to its rightful owners.” Gregory watched him carefully. “They came to me for an alternative.”

“It'll be hard to fool the authorities because the painting's already been authenticated.”

“That won't be a problem,” he said coolly.

Neal finished the last of his coffee and sat the mug down. “As long as I have a reference, I can do it.”

“Very good. I will email you pictures at this address.” Gregory pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and slid it underneath the plate.

“What's the timeline?”

“Two weeks.” Gregory stood up and carefully smoothed out his shirt, then calmly moved his chair back in. “That should give you plenty of time, does it not?”

Neal smiled. “More than enough.” 

“Good to hear. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Caffrey.” He turned to leave and stopped when Neal called out.

“Wait.”

Gregory turned back around and looked at him curiously.

Neal hesitated. It was a risk, but he needed to know the score. “What do I get out of it?”

There was a beat of silence before Gregory glanced down the street then back at Neal. “The V&A has a print by Chagall entitled _The Wolf and the Stork_. It's not that big, but it's one of my favorites. Perhaps you should go visit.” With that, he walked off.

Letting out a deep breath, Neal felt his heart slow down and the knot in his stomach relax. He ran his hands down his pants, wiping off the sheen of sweat, and realized that he missed having backup ready at a moment's notice. He was definitely on his own now.

*~*~*~*

After Gregory had left the cafe, he had taken a long stroll around town, watching for a tail before finally returning home. Borrowing a page from Mozzie and his persistent paranoia, he logged into a different proxy server to mask his IP address and signed into the email account Gregory had given him. From what little Gregory had told him, Neal had an idea of what he'd find, but still, he couldn't believe what he was looking at.

It was a Matisse. That much was clear, and with a little internet research, particularly on the Lost Art website, he'd figured out that it was the _Le Collier d'ambre / Femme en rouge_ ( _The Amber necklace / Woman dressed in red_ ). If it weren't for the fact that Gregory was involved, Neal would have been thrilled at this opportunity, even though he would never lay his hands on the original.

Telling Sara about his meeting with Gregory, though, had been hard. 

Sara was on her second glass of wine and Neal was wishing he still had some of the Shackleton whiskey he'd once counterfeited. Neal was in deep now, something that had become unavoidable the moment he'd been approached. He couldn't just sit on the sidelines now, and would have to be extremely careful and watchful of his surroundings now that Gregory had him on his radar. 

Sara had been quiet since, sitting on the couch with her glass of wine, staring out the window. Neal had his own glass out on the bar, but had kept himself from drinking too much or going after anything stronger despite the urge because he knew he needed to keep a clear head. Reena was coming by later to discuss their plans going forward and he had to be level-headed in all of this. Neal wanted to laugh at that, feeling like he was in the twilight zone, hearing Peter's calming and steady voice in his head, telling him to slow down and think everything through.

He'd always been rash, doing whatever he thought was best to get the bad guy—no matter the consequences, but he was finally starting to learn that maybe Peter had been right all along. They weren't dealing with a corrupt CEO or even a low level crook, but someone extremely smart, resourceful and connected. Even Mozzie would have reservations about working with the guy.

Neal finished putting a simple arugula chicken salad together, and looked at the clock, realizing that he still had an hour until Reena arrived. He knew he should talk with Sara again, to reassure her, but she needed this time to think things over. Neal didn't blame her, understanding that this wasn't a joke, a funny harebrained scheme he and Mozzie had concocted, but something very dangerous. The reality of dating him, even reformed, was not a fairytale or a light-hearted matter.

He knew at times that they could forget about his past, and act like a regular couple, but there would always be reminders. Life with him would never be normal. Neal just wished that the rose colored glasses didn't have to come off so soon.

“Sara?” he called out.

She looked up at him, and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. He hated putting that there.

“Dinner.” 

She nodded and slowly untangled her legs, standing up.

They ate in silence until he couldn't take it anymore. If she couldn't handle this, he needed to know. He would get on a plane back to New York once it was all over. It would hurt, but it would be less painful than watching something happen to her.

“I'm sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen,” he said, breaking the silence.

“It's not your fault. Just catch the bastard, that's all I ask.” She stabbed at her salad forcefully, the lettuce falling off her fork as she tried to spear both it and a piece of chicken. 

“If you don't want this anymore…” he trailed off, not knowing how exactly to broach it. He didn’t want to lose her, not really.

Her fork clattered on the plate as she dropped it and looked up, frustrated. “No. I told you that I knew what I was getting into and I meant it. I'm not stupid, Neal. I knew it wasn't going to be all sunshine and roses. You might not be Prince Charming-” He raised an eyebrow, and couldn’t help feeling a little put-off by that and pouted. She rolled her eyes and he grinned, waggling his eyebrows. 

She shook her head but smiled all the same. “But hell, I'm not Snow White either. If I had wanted that, I could have gone after any number of boring men out there. So don't go all martyr on me.” Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms. “I mean, what makes this guy worse than all the others? There's always going to be criminals out there.”

He knew she was right, but that still didn’t make him feel any better about it. He hesitated. “So, you're okay?”

Sara sighed. “Am I happy with it? No, but what can we do? Let's just get through it and move on.”

Neal’s smile stretched tight across his face and he nodded. He didn’t like it either, but she was sticking with him, and that made him happier than he could have imagined.

Reena showed up half an hour after dinner. By then, they had talked more and Neal felt a little better about the situation, if not comfortable with it. They had to look at this like any other case he'd worked on with the FBI. Neal would forge the painting, and Interpol—and most likely Europol, would handle the rest. 

He didn't have to worry about the take down or anything else. All he had to do was paint. A small part of Neal was actually excited and could feel the old thrill of a good forgery and con taking over him.

“So what do you have for me? Is he hitting another museum?” Reena asked once she'd sat down on a chair in their living room. “Your phone call was pretty vague, but I got the feeling you weren't calling me to say no one's talking.”

Sara glanced at Neal nervously, then took a sip of her water from where she sat on the couch. Neal had stopped her from having a third glass of wine over dinner, knowing she'd regret it in the morning. She was calmer now at least, and hadn't argued. It said a lot about their relationship, which made Neal happy, especially that they were working through this together. He knew there would be bumps in the road, but this made him that much more confident in his decision to move to London and prouder of himself for how he was handling it.

Neal took a deep breath. “Gregory approached me today.”

Reena's eyes widened. “He what? How?” She shook her head slightly and held up a hand, quickly correcting herself. “I mean, how did he find out about you?”

He crossed his arms and nearly scoffed. “I've been asking questions, it was inevitable. I was just hoping that if they weren't talking to me, then the opposite would be true as well.”

“Well, given that you're standing here, I take it that it went okay.” 

He chuckled, then crossed the room to sit down next to Sara, taking her hand in his and calmly ran his thumb over the palm of her hand. “Yes, I'm alive, if that's what you're trying to say.” He paused, and looked Reena straight in the eye. “He knows who I am, and that I worked with the FBI. But I managed to convince him that my allegiances had never wavered, and that I continued to pull off cons the entire time.”

“Which I'm sure was not that much of a stretch,” she replied wryly, lifting an eyebrow.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” he said and smirked. 

She rolled her eyes.

Neal felt Sara’s body relax and saw her biting her lip to keep from laughing. He smiled, and found himself relaxing too. It felt good, especially after today.

“Right, so he thinks you're still a conman, that's good, I guess. I'm sure he didn't just stop by for the simple pleasure of talking to you. What did he want?”

Giving Sara's hand a gentle squeeze, he replied, “He wants me to forge a painting. It's a Matisse, one that was plundered by the Nazis. The original owners have made a claim to get it back recently. The current owners apparently aren't willing to give it up.”

Reena nodded knowingly. “So they hired Gregory to switch it with a forgery.”

“Correct. I couldn't find any mention of the legal claim or lawsuit online, but I'm pretty sure it's probably with the authorities right now.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Does he want you to make the switch?”

Neal shook his head. “No, he didn't mention it. In fact, when I asked him what my cut would be, he brought up Chagall's print _The Wolf and the Stork_.”

Reena looked at him confused.

“It's an Aesop fable,” he explained. “A wolf gets a bone stuck in his throat, and asks the other animals for help. After a crane agrees, and uses his long beak to get the bone out, he asks for his reward. The wolf replies that he should be content, for he put his head in the wolf's mouth and got out safely.”

Sara had not heard this and looked uneasily between the two. Reena appeared a little worried as well.

“It's a test,” Neal said. “He needs to trust me. As long as everything goes okay, I'll be part of his crew and he'll call on me to work another job. But I probably won't get paid for this one.”

Reena shifted, and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. “Except there won't be another job.”

“No, there won't.”

“Right, so you go ahead with the forgery, and we'll look into the painting—see who owns it, where it's being held and come up with a plan.” She smiled, and Neal felt the same energy and anticipation when they put a plan together at the FBI. “This is good, we can get him with this.” 

Neal pulled out a USB drive from his pocket and got up to hand it to her. “He gave me an email account where these pictures were waiting. They're very good—excellent in fact. Lots of close ups. I'm betting the owners took them, but I couldn't look at the metadata to confirm. You should probably look at that first, just to make sure it's not an inside job and tip off someone once you start digging around.”

A look of horror flashed across her face. “If he has someone in Interpol...”

“That would explain why he's been so hard to catch, and how he intends to switch out the painting,” Neal filled in.

Reena's expression darkened and she clutched the small drive in her hand tightly. “Let's hope not, or else this will get very tricky and messy. So far, only my boss knows about your involvement, and I'll keep it that way. We'll keep it quiet that we're looking into him until we're sure there's no one in Interpol or law enforcement involved. Give me the email address and I'll have our cyber guys look into that as well.”

Neal motioned to the drive. “It's all on there.”

She nodded and shot him a grateful look. “Thank you. What time frame did he give you?”

“Two weeks.”

Reena pondered this for a moment, then stood up. “Okay, I'll get in touch with you once we know something. We'll have to arrange a way to follow the painting. Call me if you get any further intel on when and where you have to meet him to hand over the painting.”

He stood up and they started walking towards the front door. “Use the number I called you from tonight. It's a burner phone, and probably safer for all involved.” 

“Understood.” At the door, they stopped and she turned to face him. Lowering her voice, she glanced back towards the living room and Sara. “I'm sorry it came to this. I know you didn't want to get involved, but we'll keep you safe. I'll try to keep your name out of it as much as I can.”

Neal shook his head. “We both know that's impossible. I'll have to make a statement." He smiled grimly. "Besides, he'll immediately suspect me.”

She sighed. “Hopefully once we arrest him, it'll be all over. It doesn't sound like he's one to make allegiances. People will only be loyal to a guy like him for so long.” She gave him an encouraging smile, but it felt forced to Neal. 

“We can hope.”


	5. Chapter Four

Sara shuffled into the second bedroom with a yawn, clutching her mug of coffee tightly as if it would help keep her upright. She was not surprised to find Neal painting there. The room had once been her office, but they'd rearranged things after he moved in, creating a small studio space for him. He sat by the window now, where the early morning light cast the room in a golden glow.

When she'd woken up to an empty bed, she'd been slightly disappointed, wanting a quiet Saturday morning with him. But she recognized Neal's desire to put the Gregory situation behind them. He had been working on the Matisse for a few days now, and it was breathtaking to watch him paint with such precision yet total ease from several printed photographs. She knew that painting gave him peace, and wished he could find it in his own work.

It was only his promise to her that kept him from recreating an entire wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in their flat. She wasn’t oblivious to his struggle to go straight, and was proud of what he had accomplished so far. It would just take time for him to find new outlets for his creativity and his charms. 

He paused in his work and glanced over his shoulder, giving her a small smile. “Good morning,” his voice still low and heavy from sleep.

“You're up early,” she commented, crossing the room in a few short strides and stopped by his side.

Neal shrugged. “Couldn't sleep. Figured I might as well work.”

She slid a hand over his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, and rested her arm around his neck. Taking a sip of her coffee, she examined the painting. It was quickly taking shape. The woman’s face was coming into focus and the amber necklace stood out from the pale expanse of skin. Sara wondered if he would even need the full two weeks.

He looked up at her, stretching just slightly and she smiled, leaning down to meet him for a kiss. They lingered there in silence for several seconds, and she breathed in slowly. She might have woken up alone, but having someone here for her, someone who cared for her and only wanted the best for her was all she could ask for.

And that was all she could do for him, too.

She broke away, and walked towards her desk on the far side of the room. Setting her mug down, she leaned a hip against the glass top and watched as he returned his attention back to the painting. She hesitated a moment, then took a deep breath. 

“Did you ever want to paint your own work? You have the talent.”

His concentration didn't falter, but she could tell he hadn't expected her to bring that up. He shook his head. “Not really. It was more of a hobby. I loved art, but I was going to be a cop. Besides, I knew how hard it was to make it as an artist. You can't make a living off of it.”

Sara knew better than to talk about his father, or what had prompted him to start forging other people’s work. It hadn’t been her intention to bring up the past, so she quickly moved on. “I've decided what I want you to paint for me.”

This caught his attention. He stopped and glanced back at her. “Oh?”

“I want a Neal Caffrey original. I can go to a museum to see the greats, but I want something that no one else has hanging in my bedroom.”

“I painted you the other day. That's original,” he replied lightly.

There was a hint of mischief in his eyes, but she knew better. He clearly wanted to rile her up. If she didn’t love him so much, she’d strangle him one of these days. 

She would be hard pressed to admit that it was one of the many reasons why they were so good together. They kept each other on their toes. Life was certainly never boring with Neal Caffrey around—even with him working an honest living. Sara didn’t think she could go back to dating men that droned on about the stock market and dividends.

She gave him a pointed look. “That's not weird at all, having a painting of myself staring down at me. No, I don't care what you paint, just paint me something that inspires you.”

He laughed softly, and then gestured at the Matisse. “It'll have to wait, though.”

“I know. It doesn't matter when.” She picked up her mug and sipped her coffee. "Did you ever hear from Reena about the painting?"

"I did. Scotland Yard's Art and Antiques Unit has it."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "That's going to make it a little difficult to switch out."

Shrugging, he picked up a rag to wipe down his paintbrush. "Yeah, but Gregory will probably wait until the painting moves to grab it."

"What about the photographs?"

"The photos were taken with a Canon PowerShot camera, a common point and shoot that the average user buys. While she can't definitively say the camera belongs to the owners, we do know the photos weren't taken by the authorities. They're not official photographs."

Sara cocked her head to the side and considered this. "But that doesn't rule out someone on the inside taking their own photos."

He shook his head, and reached for the jar of turpentine that sat on the small work bench beside him. "It doesn't, but she looked into those that had access to the painting at Scotland Yard, and they're clean. No financial problems or motive to sell out that she could find."

"That should make Reena happy. Besides, we already knew the owners were in on it."

Neal nodded. “Exactly. She's digging into them right now, trying to connect them to Gregory and see if they've had any contact recently. Gregory will give me a time and place to hand off the painting, but we don't know when he plans on making the switch.”

“So we'll have to follow the painting, then,” she filled in.

He froze. The steady motion of his hand, stirring the brush in the small jar, came to a sudden halt. He looked up at her startled. “Interpol and the Metropolitan police will, at least.”

Sara was unable to hide her surprise. “You're not even the least bit interested in taking part?”

His face fell and settled into a grim expression. “The farther I stay away from Gregory, the better. He'll still probably suspect I had a part in it, but if my only role in all of this is to hand over the painting, I might be able to get away with it. I’ll be the least of his concerns.”

She nodded numbly, and felt a weight lift off her chest that she hadn’t even been conscious of. He was doing the responsible thing. Neal would never be a normal guy, but he was taking steps to stay out of danger—and that really, was all she could ask for.

*~*~*~*

Neal once told Peter that he had never lied to him. Of course, they both knew that there had been plenty of times that Neal had simply bent the truth. The same was true for Sara when they had first started to date. Sara knew that Neal couldn’t tell her everything, and after a while she knew not to bring up certain things (like the Raphael), so he wouldn't have to lie to her.

With all the lying and the conning after Peter's release, Neal had forgotten what it was like to be in an honest relationship. He'd been so consumed with the ripple effect of taking Hagen’s deal, the one lie that had started it all, that his life became a house of cards. One wrong move and it would all fall down. Suddenly all that stood between him and a life sentence, and ruining the lives of everyone around him—was that lie.

He'd jumped into a relationship with Rebecca, and it had been almost _too_ easy to lie to her, until he couldn't anymore. Because he wanted what Peter and Elizabeth had, and he was tired of living a lie. But he hadn't been honest—not with Peter and Elizabeth, or with himself.

Maybe it was the high that came with a new relationship, or the idea of what she had represented—an innocent, beautiful, smart woman who didn't see the bad in him—that had blinded him to the truth. It was her shocking betrayal that had made him think back on what he'd had with Sara and realized that he'd missed out on the one real relationship he'd ever had. He'd learned now, more than ever, that honesty was key, and that Sara had always known the real him and loved him despite of it. She wasn't swept off her feet by the romance or the thrill, and would never look at him starry eyed. Neal found that more alluring than the ideal woman Rebecca had portrayed.

When he moved to London, he promised himself that this was the start of an honest relationship. No more lies or half-truths. Sara had asked him to be honest with her once before, and that's what he intended to do now. 

It was easier said than done, he thought as he stared down at the safe deposit box before him. Pulling out a stack of passports, he shuffled through them until he found the two he was looking for.

Marc and Claire Pelletier, from Montreal, Canada. Happily married for three years, and traveling across Europe before starting a family, his mind supplied.

There was a bundle of Euros in the box as well and Neal eyed them hesitantly. Neal had promised Sara a clean slate, but he went nowhere without an escape plan.

He'd lied to Sara, and hated himself for it, but he didn't want to worry her. Not yet. But if he took part in taking down Gregory then he was as good as dead. It would put a clear target on him, whether or not Gregory went to jail. Men like Gregory earned the trust of those below him and Neal had no doubt he wasn’t going to be looked upon favorably once Gregory was arrested.

So Neal would stay far away in hopes he'd be forgotten, lost in the scramble of everyone who didn't want to be taken down with the boss. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be prepared.

He'd hoped to never have to use these IDs, or to ever let Sara know about them. Too bad the choice might be taken away from him.

Taking the money and the passports, he closed the box with a clang. With any luck, he might not need them and could return them without telling her. Sometimes not knowing was easier than knowing the truth.

*~*~*~*

“You're staring.”

Neal smiled and trailed a finger down Sara’s arm. “That's not a crime.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” Sara turned over, laughed at the pout he gave her, and planted a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

He reached up and wrapped his hand around hers, intertwining their fingers. “I'm just taking it all in. I still can't believe I'm here.”

“Everyone deserves a happy ending, Neal,” she said softly.

His eyes drifted downward, and he ducked his head. “Some days I'm not so sure. I’ve hurt a lot of people.” He paused. “I don't want to hurt you.”

The word 'again' hung in the air unspoken, but they both knew it was there. 

They weren't going to revisit the past. It was time to move on, and forgive and forget.

“I'm a big girl, Caffrey. I know what I'm getting into.”

Neal looked at her, worried, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you?”

Sara's mouth curled at the edges and her eyes sparkled. “Maybe I like bad boys.”

“Oh really?” He pushed himself up on his elbows, and moved over her, smiling down at her devilishly. “How bad? Because I've been a very naughty boy.”

He leaned down and kissed a trail down her neck, then nipped her shoulder. She jumped slightly. With his teeth, he gently pulled the thin satin strap of her nightgown down her arm. He moved to her other shoulder but stopped short, and glanced back up at her with a mischievous grin. 

He might be a good guy now, but who’s to say he couldn’t tap into the old Neal Caffrey once in a while. If that's what she wanted...

*~*~*~*

The door rattled as Sara shut it with her foot as she juggled her laptop bag, purse, and the Thai takeaway she'd picked up for dinner. Dumping the bag and purse by the door, she kicked off her shoes and walked into the kitchen to set the food down on the counter. She noticed that the oven was on, and went to peek through the small window. Dessert was never out of the question when it came to Neal's baking whims.

But no, it wasn't dessert, she discovered disappointedly as she spotted the distinct shape of a painting lying on the rack.

Most people didn't come home to a forgery baking in their oven, she thought wryly and shook her head, softly laughing. 

Nor did they realize that by picking an apartment with full size appliances, they would be helping take down an international art thief.

“Neal?” she called out, still staring at the oven in disbelief. It wasn't that she hadn't known this was coming, but it was strange to realize that her life now included an ex-con who could forge a priceless painting effortlessly and would use her oven to do so.

“In here,” he called out, and she walked back to the second bedroom.

Knocking on the open door, she moved inside and collapsed into her desk chair. Neal was cleaning up his art supplies and there was a stack of photographs on the desk that had been tacked up on the walls for the past week. He currently had his back to her, and she couldn't help but admire him in his painting clothes. While he always looked good in a suit, and somehow pulled off the fedora like no one else, she loved seeing him in casual clothes. He was more relaxed, and tended to be more of himself. 

Although the t-shirt he wore was now paint spattered and the old jeans worn and dirty as well, they brought out an innocent and youthful quality to him. 

They also hugged his body in such a way that Sara almost preferred this look over his sleek and expensive suits. And she wouldn't mind taking them off after dinner.

She watched as he finished cleaning a brush, wiped it down with an old towel and turned around. His face lit up with a wide smile and she couldn't help but smile back. He'd been living with her for almost two months, and while they already had their routines, it still felt new and exciting. She was happy—happier than she’d been in a long time.

“You're home early.”

Sara cocked her head to the side and eyed him suspiciously. “Funny you should mention that. Gwen kicked me out of the office telling me I should be taking more time off, and that as the boss, it was my prerogative to leave early on a Friday.”

Neal chuckled, and moved to the corner of the room, dropping to his knees and depositing the brush and a few other paints in his bin. “I like her. Remind me to send her some flowers.”

She glared at him even though he couldn't see her, and scoffed. “I'm sure she just wanted to leave early too. Then on my way home, William Coulson called, apologizing because he needed to reschedule our meeting. The meeting that my assistant had just rescheduled yesterday due to my,” she finger-quoted, “ _trip_. Would I be available on November 13th instead?”

She crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look as he got up and faced her. “I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. After I got off the phone, having assured him I would be available, I checked my calendar and do you know what I found?”

Neal smothered a grin, quickly ducking his head as he moved to clean another brush.

“November 8th through 12th all blocked off. I see you've already got my assistant wrapped around your finger.” 

He looked up and shrugged, fixing an innocent expression on his face. “Who says I did anything?”

Sara rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I know Gwen, and she-”

“-is scared of you?”

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him incredulously. Had Gwen said something? She personally loved her assistant, and thought they got along rather well. 

"NO. Why would she-"

“You certainly have the shoes to be Miranda Priestly,” he added, smirking slightly.

“ _What?_ I am not that bad!”

Neal stepped forward, and his voice softened. “Look, if you think I'm not going do something special for your birthday now that I'm in town, you're gravely mistaken.”

“I can't just take off,” she protested.

Neal pulled her up and squeezed her hands. “There's this newfangled thing called email and the telephone. We'll just be a short train ride away if you need to come back. But I think the insurance world can live without Sara Ellis for a few days.”

“So where is this little trip we're taking?”

“Paris.” He smiled wide.

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said ‘short.’”

He shrugged his shoulders, looking wholly unapologetic. “It's a little over two hours—hardly worth mentioning. It's not like we're flying transatlantic.”

Sara sighed, but inwardly she was excited. She rarely took vacations, and even then, they weren’t always strictly for pleasure. She had voluntarily used her PTO to fly to Argentina to help Peter and Neal solve the Vincent Adler mystery. Besides, she loved Paris...

Her eyes snapped up and met his. “You're not going to propose on the Eiffel tower, are you? Because as much fun as it was on the Empire State Building...”

Neal pulled her into his arms. “No, I'm not going to propose on the Eiffel tower, or the Arc de Triomphe, for that matter.”

Wrinkling her nose at that possibility, she replied petulantly, “I would certainly hope not—I'd be too winded after walking up all those steps. I'd probably say 'no' just to spite you.”

He chuckled. “I'll keep that in mind. But don't worry, nothing that clichéd. I will tell you this, when I propose, you're not going to expect it.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat. “So you do want to get married?”

Something flickered across his face and his eyes melted into a deep blue. “It may have been a con, but Sara, I meant every word. I know I'm not the guy you imagined you'd marry, but I hope that I’m the one you want anyway.

“I once asked Elizabeth how she knew Peter was the one. She told me there was a difference between loving the idea of someone and loving who they really were. You see the real me, and I couldn't ask for anything more.”

“Sound like you’re proposing right now,” she remarked, smiling up at him, her heart beating a little faster. She didn’t know if she was ready for it now, but if push came to shove, she knew she couldn’t say no.

“Just telling you how I feel.” He brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, and gently pressed his lips to her forehead. As she laid her head against his chest, she knew with absolute certainty that next time it would have a different ending. 

She was looking forward to it.

*~*~*~*

“Wow, this is good.” Reena stared at the painting, her nose inches away from the canvas, trying to detect anything that would distinguish itself from the original—but there was nothing. At least, as far as she could tell.

“I'm sure glad you're on our side, now,” she remarked as she backed away from the easel. “I'd swear it was the real thing, although I'm no art expert.”

Neal smiled honestly. A sense of pride always filled him when his forgeries passed inspection. “Thank you. It won't pass any official tests, but Gregory doesn't seem to be worried about that.”

Reena smirked, and chuckled. “Little does he know we don't care about that either. We just need to catch him with the original.” She crossed the room to where she left a small box on Sara's desk. Opening it, she pulled out a small bundle of bubble wrap and carefully revealed what looked to be a short piece of white ribbon. It was only three inches long and barely half an inch wide.

She held it out to Neal. “GPS tracker. Think you can tuck in in the frame?”

Neal took it and turned it over in his hands. The ribbon was actually solid plastic and just a couple millimeters thick. He nodded and smiled. “Shouldn't be a problem.”

Laying it back down on the desk, he walked over to the easel and flipped the painting over. He felt along the frame, and found a spot with extra canvas hanging off that he thought would cover it well. Grabbing his tools, he carefully loosened the canvas around that area and motioned for Reena to bring the tracker over. He slid it in and had Reena hold it in place while he tightened the canvas once more, over the small tracker. Unless you looked closely and ran your fingers over the frame, you couldn't tell it was there.

Reena beamed. “Excellent.” She then pulled a watch from her coat pocket and tossed it to Neal. “A transmitter, just so we can hear what's going on. If for any reason you feel your cover is blown or you're in trouble, just say the word and we'll come in right away. But it sounds like this will be pretty simple. Don't try to get anything out of him—it'll make him too suspicious. Get in, get out, and we'll follow the painting.”

“I know the drill,” Neal replied smoothly, and smiled knowingly. He could hear Peter in his head, telling him not to fool around. But ultimately, Peter knew to trust Neal's instincts, and if he had to improvise, then there was (usually) a good reason.

“Alright, well… good luck. I’m going to go now so we're not seen leaving together. Just remember, we'll have people down the street if necessary.”

Neal nodded. “I'll be fine, don't worry. I can handle myself.”

Reena opened her mouth to argue, then decided against it and shook her head. She didn't want to worry Sara any more than necessary. Neal knew the score and the risks better than anyone. “I'll call you later and let you know if he tries to make the switch. But more than likely he'll sit on it and go after it when it leaves Scotland Yard.” She gave Sara a reassuring smile then walked herself out.

Sara wrapped her arms around her chest and stared at Neal. This was it. In a few hours, Neal's part would be done and they'd only have to wait for the Metropolitan Police to do their part. But they both knew how easily something could go wrong. How many times had Neal come face to face with a gun, or worse? Sara realized she'd had it easy living an ocean away while Neal had worked with the FBI. She didn't have to worry every time he had to go undercover. Sure, he made it seem like it was just another day of work, but she wasn't stupid, she knew there were always risks. Just because they dealt with white collar criminals didn't mean they all had the same aversion to guns and violence like Neal did.

Neal picked up the painting and slid it into the portfolio. Turning to her, he gave her a small smile. “It’s almost over. Then everything goes back to normal.”

She nearly laughed out loud, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Normal? Since when have we been normal?” She eyed the vintage Devore suit he wore, about to go hand off an impeccable forgery of a 20th century masterpiece to an international art thief.

Not many people could say that was a normal occurrence. But for them? She sighed.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?” 

Rolling her eyes, she shook her head and he grinned. Giving her a sly wink, he crossed the room and stopped in front of her. She looked up at him expectantly and his face softened just a little. His hand came to rest on the nape of her neck, and he leaned in and kissed her softly. “I love you, Repo.”

“Love you too, Caffrey.”

*~*~*~*

The address that Gregory had emailed Neal sent him to an old warehouse along the banks of the River Thames. Neal recognized the need to stay away from the busy and populous streets of London with all the cameras, but he'd like to meet someplace civilized. Even though Gregory had surprised him at the cafe, Neal had been able to stay calm, safe in the knowledge that with people around, he wouldn't be harmed. To have a conversation over coffee had been a bonus. Only wine would have made it better.

He took note of the van down the street, tucked away behind another warehouse, amidst some eighteen wheelers and old cars. Neal realized with a pang of the heart that he actually missed the old municipal van and wondered how they were doing without him. But he knew now was not the time to reminisce. Pushing the button on his watch, he turned on the transmitter, and felt that familiar feeling of security, of having someone watch his back.

Casually, he strolled into the warehouse and looked around. It was nearly empty, with only a few pieces of machinery sitting in the corners, covered in tarps and layers of dust. There was a faint odor of fish, probably from years (if not decades) of processing, and Neal figured that smell would never go away. An office in the back had a light on and Neal started towards it, carefully watching for anyone in the shadows.

There was no telling what Gregory would do once he handed over the painting. No one had outright acknowledged it, but there was always a chance that Gregory would see fit that Neal never worked with him again. It was a risk, but Neal knew his talents would keep him in high demand, so he didn't worry too much.

No, that would only happen if Gregory felt Neal might not play for the right side or had caught wind of the fact that he'd been working with Interpol. He and Reena had been careful not to be seen together, never meeting at work, and only communicating by burner phones. But Neal, more than anyone else, knew there was always room for something to go wrong.

As he neared the office door, he heard voices and recognized Gregory. With Reena's help, they'd been able to identify the three men who'd met up with Jimmy at a pub from the date he'd written on the receipt. Two of them were known thieves, while the other had been Colin. Gregory had not shown.

The door was open and he saw Gregory look up as he approached. Walking inside the small office, Neal recognized Colin standing next to Gregory, and Ethan in the corner, one of the other men who'd worked the Chagall job. The way Colin stood stiff with his arms crossed, and then narrowed his eyes at Neal made him suspect that the man was second in command, if there was such a position. He hoped Colin didn't remember him from the night at the pub with Eva, and knew he had to tread carefully.

Gregory smiled and nodded at him. “Ahh... Mr. Caffrey, right on time.”

“I like to be punctual,” Neal replied smoothly, slipping into one of the roles he knew best—the charming, confident con.

“The painting?”

Neal walked over to an old metal desk that stood off to the side. Laying the portfolio down, he pulled out cotton gloves from his coat, and quickly tugged them on. While it was only a forgery, Neal knew better than to touch it any more than necessary, and keep it clean of sweat and natural oils. Plus, it was better that Gregory not handle it himself, with the small chance that he would feel the GPS tracker in the frame.

Carefully he slid it out and held it up for inspection. Gregory crossed the short distance and stared at it closely for a few minutes until he gave a perfunctory nod and backed up. “Very good. I have another job for you.”

Neal slid the painting back into the portfolio, then glanced back. “Oh?” He remained calm, and turned back around to face him, slowly pulling off his gloves. This was good news, at least. Hopefully he'd be able to walk out without incident.

“It seems your current position with Sterling Bosch will be quite useful for us.” Gregory moved away, folding his hands behind his back.

Shifting the weight of his feet slightly, Neal watched him and Colin out of the corner of his eye, trying to maintain an air of indifference. His cover was tenuous at best, and he couldn't let them question it. “I just switched a painting the other week, if that's what you're referring to. I can't do it again, not this soon.”

Gregory shook his head. “No, not quite. However, I do require you to switch this painting.” He waved his hand toward the desk and the portfolio.

Neal's eyebrows shot up. “It's not insured by Sterling Bosch. I don't follow you.” Inwardly his gut clenched, knowing exactly where the original was stored—in an evidence locker in Scotland Yard. He'd pulled off many daring feats in his day, but he'd never outright stolen from the police.

Colin shared a look with Gregory, and Neal could tell the man wasn't on the same page as his boss. He didn't like Neal, and didn't want him there. Was this another test? 

“I'm quite aware of that. It is however, with the Metropolitan Police, and you would not be questioned if you were to visit Scotland Yard. Insurance companies work with the police all the time.” The soft lilt of his voice, yet firm stance dared Neal to question him. This was not a man to be messed with.

“You want me to steal the painting from Scotland Yard,” Neal stated clearly. He’d never been more thankful to have a transmitter on him, knowing Reena would hear about the change in plans. He had a feeling this was going down now. Gregory didn't want him making any plans—for the job or otherwise. 

His suspicions were quickly confirmed. Gregory smiled. A feeling of dread settled over Neal. “Correct. I have no doubt that you're capable of it.”

Neal flashed back to Wilkes giving him that same smile, confident in his power over him with one simple threat. Only this time he didn't want to find out what Gregory would do if he refused. Neal knew he had no choice. He had to see this through.

“I don't think they'll just let me waltz into the evidence locker,” he pointed out, keeping his voice calm but firm. He had to strike a balance between agreeable and willing to push back. Neal couldn't risk Gregory suspecting anything.

Gregory spread his arms out. “Where's your imagination? I though Neal Caffrey liked a challenge.”

“Getting in isn't the problem. It's getting out unnoticed that is,” Neal replied, turning slightly as he watched him walk around the desk. He was already running scenarios in his head, but he doubted that Gregory was just leaving this up to chance. No, the man had a plan, and Neal needed him to spell it out so that Reena could hear.

Gregory bent down. “I'm sure you'll come up with something. This might help you.” He lifted a portfolio out from behind the desk.

He handed it over to Neal who took it wearily. Clutching a glove in one hand, he used it to carefully pull out the edge of the painting a few inches and his eyes widened he saw what he was holding.

“Cézanne’s _View of Auvers-sur-Oise_ ,” Neal breathed, and felt his heart race. He was holding the painting stolen from the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, known as the Y2K heist.

“I'm quite sure they'll be happy to see you,” Gregory calmly remarked. He motioned to Ethan. “A smoke bomb will be set off and the building will have to evacuate. From there, it's up to you to switch the painting.”

Neal nodded numbly, still staring at the painting in his hands. Stolen the night of the millennium, it had been a nearly perfect theft and no one had seen the painting since. He'd never heard even a rumor or a whisper in all his years. Now he was about to walk into Scotland Yard to return it. If Peter could see him now... 

Pausing, Neal had to wonder why Gregory was returning a multi-million dollar painting just to steal another. It made no sense. It had to be a forgery.

“This can't be the real thing.”

Gregory let out a low laugh and the smile that crossed his face was tight and controlled. “Of course not. But someone tried to pass it off as such, and I was not happy about that. He no longer works for me.”

Neal felt a chill run down his spine. He told Sara he worked alone for a reason, and this was a perfect example why.

“Think you can handle it?”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Neal replied calmly, his face a mask. He slid the painting back in, then set it down carefully on the desk. Putting his gloves on once more, he moved the Cézanne into the portfolio he'd brought with his forgery.

Neal had to hand it to Gregory, the man was smart. If he walked in to turn in a stolen painting to evidence, he had the perfect excuse to walk in with the forgery and out with the original. He only had to find a way into the evidence room without anyone seeing him.

Not that it would matter (he had Interpol on his side), but Neal had to make it look real. He had no idea if Reena would call ahead and alert them or not. The plan had been to catch Gregory switching the painting, but now they had to catch him with the painting itself, and there was no GPS on it.

One of two things would happen—they followed Neal and the painting, and arrested both of them, or followed Gregory after the handoff. Either way, Gregory would know he was involved, there was no way around that.

Neal picked up the portfolio and looked at Gregory expectantly. He smiled and nodded, then led the small contingent out of the warehouse. The drive to Scotland Yard was quiet. Neal kept his eyes on the men in the car. Colin was driving, and was keeping a close eye on him in the rear-view mirror. Gregory was sitting in the passenger seat, calm, and oblivious to the tension of his right-hand man.

He had no idea how they planned on setting off the smoke bomb, and he wasn't going to ask. Ethan, he'd noticed earlier, was wearing a janitorial uniform, which meant Gregory had been planning this for awhile. A fake id and uniform weren't enough to walk into the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. No, they had to find a way in—or more likely someone else's way in, be it bribe or otherwise. But they couldn't leave with the painting. That's why they needed him.

“You will have ten minutes once you're inside. Make good use of your time,” Gregory announced, tearing Neal from his thoughts.

They drove down the street and stopped next to the Christchurch gardens. “Meet me by the Purcell statue.”

Neal nodded and opened his door, stepping out. He walked to the back of the car, waited a moment before the trunk popped open, and carefully pulled out the portfolio. Ethan was already walking down the street towards the employee entrance of New Scotland Yard by the time he slammed the trunk closed. Neal followed a distance behind and turned toward the visitor’s entrance, his stride confident and his mind focused on the task ahead. He was thankful that he had worn a suit, as it would make getting in easier. Earlier he had decided to meet Gregory with the mindset of making the exchange a business transaction. Gregory wasn’t just a thief, he was a businessman, and appearances were crucial.

“I sure hope you guys heard everything, because I’m about to walk into Scotland Yard to steal the painting,” he muttered quietly.

He eyed the people walking around and noticed a Starbucks right across the street. Most likely Gregory would be watching and waiting. Neal stepped into the small building that housed the visitor’s entrance and walked right up to the front desk. Cameras recorded his every move and he knew the lady behind the desk was watching him closely. Giving her a small smile—nothing too bright or else he’d raise suspicions, he pulled his wallet out of his suit coat and handed over his id and a business card.

“Hello,” he greeted her calmly. “I’m Neal Caffrey, an insurance investigator with Sterling Bosch. We came across a painting we believe was stolen during a case. I’m here to turn it into evidence.”

The woman was in the late thirties, if he was to guess, and had no wedding ring. She wore a uniform, but he quickly observed that she wasn’t an officer. He had no idea if she or anyone else had been warned of his visit. So far, she hadn’t made any motion that would let him know otherwise. 

Taking his id, she wrote his name down and pushed it back. “Do you have an appointment?”

Neal shook his head. “No, but I have briefed D.I. Lambert.” He’d heard Sara mention the Detective Inspector a couple times, and was grateful he could pull a name out. It added to his credibility.

She nodded briskly and gave him a visitor’s badge, then pointed to her right to where a police officer was standing next to a metal detector. “Follow the walkway and once in the lobby, take the elevator to the fourth floor. You’re required to return here and turn in your badge once you’re finished.”

He cocked his head ever so slightly and smiled. “Thank you.” She smiled back and blushed faintly. Neal was now pretty sure she hadn’t been tipped off.

Walking over to the metal detector, he handed the portfolio to the officer who briefly looked in it and then passed it over to a second officer on the other side. Dropping his watch, cell phone and keys in the bin provided, Neal then walked through. Collecting everything, he smiled at the officers and continued on to the main building.

No one paid attention to him as he walked through the lobby and that almost made him nervous. He had to really go through with this, and while Neal knew he wouldn’t get into trouble in the end, he’d rather not encounter resistance if things didn’t go as planned.

Glancing at his watch, he noted the time and hoped the intake process wasn’t long. He boarded the elevator with a few other people, and kept his stance relaxed as he waited. Once he got off, Neal walked to the office listing on the wall and memorized the floor plan. He wanted this to go as smoothly as possible, but he had to know all exit routes just in case.

He turned and walked down the corridor and stopped at the small counter where the window was covered by a rolling metal shutter. Pushing the buzzer on the wall, he stood there a minute until it was rolled up and he was greeted by an older police officer.

“How can I help you?”

Neal smiled and held up the portfolio so the man could see it. “I’m here to turn in a painting. I work with Sterling Bosch Insurance.”

The officer handed over some papers, and Neal quickly filled them out. Running a hand over his tie, he slipped off his tie clip and shoved his hand into his pocket. Bending it apart with his fingers, he waited as the officer looked over his papers.

“Okay, I’ll let you in at the door.” He motioned to Neal’s right, where there was a door about five feet down. It had an electronic badge reader on the wall.

Neal nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”

The officer looked up and raised his arms to roll the shutter down and Neal slipped the tie clip down at the base. 

It only took a couple of minutes to log the painting in and after a few carefully placed questions about how they stored artwork, Neal was out and walking back down the corridor. He ducked into the restrooms and glanced at his watch. Two minutes.

Closing himself into a stall, he waited until he heard an alarm blare and the noise of footsteps hurriedly moving down the corridors. Waiting another couple of minutes, he stepped out only when it was quiet except for the alarm and he saw smoke drifting in.

The smoke filled the corridor and thankfully kept him from the camera’s watchful eyes. He quickly moved back towards the evidence room and dropped the portfolio against the wall. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he jammed it under the tie clip and slowly pushed up the shutter. The clip had kept the window from making contact and fully locking down. Moments later, he finally got it up far enough to slip his fingers in and pushed it the rest of the way up.

Coughing slightly, he picked up the portfolio and carefully dropped it on the desk. Then he gripped the counter and heaved himself up and over it. Neal didn’t put his feet down until he could see an empty spot on the desk where he wouldn’t step on anything. Easing himself down, he turned around and closed the shutter. Then he grabbed the portfolio and hurried to the door at the back of the evidence room. He’d learned by talking with the officer that all evidence for the Art and Antiques Unit was kept off in their own area, away from anything that could damage the art in any way. Walking the aisles, he quickly found it in a back corner.

Neal tugged his gloves on and sorted through a few paintings until he found the Matisse. It was still framed. He laid it down on the shelf gently. He made quick work of switching it out with his forgery, then returned to the office at the front. Listening for a moment, he heard no one outside and pushed the shutter open again. Climbing out, he double-checked the desk to make sure nothing was disturbed, and closed everything behind him. Logically, he knew it didn’t matter if he left any trace, but it was another habit he couldn’t break.

He was down the stairs a minute later, walking through the lobby and out the main doors, bypassing the walkway back to the visitors building. Officers were directing everyone and one of them took his visitor's badge, barely glancing at him. Fire trucks were just arriving and Neal wove his way through the crowds and down the street.

Neal let himself breathe a little easier, but even though the hard part was over, he still had to meet up with Gregory. Anything could happen. Neal had no idea if Reena and the police would be waiting to move in and arrest Gregory right away or if he had to walk off hoping that they were going to follow him. It was out of his control.

The park was small. It was mostly used as a thoroughfare between the streets and the nearby underground station. There weren’t many places the police could hide, with only a few benches spread along the paths and an open lawn in the middle. A few people were on the grass, reading, and he spotted a few sitting on the benches, a couple of them chatting on phones.

He didn’t see Reena, but she was probably staying out of sight, just in case. Wandering down the path, he saw Gregory standing by the Purcell statue, one hand shoved in his coat pocket, the other holding a cell phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal finally spotted the van parked on the side street. They were here.

“Any problems?” Gregory asked when Neal stopped in front of him. His eyes were still focused on the phone in his hands.

“None.”

Gregory looked up and smiled. “Excellent.” He held his hand out and Neal handed over the portfolio. “It was a pleasure working with you, Mr. Caffrey. Hopefully we can work together again sometime soon.”

Without another word, Gregory tucked his phone in his pocket and walked the other way.

Neal watched him, eyeing the people on the benches. No one made a move. Deciding he didn’t want to be caught in the takedown, he turned around and walked back towards the street. He heard some commotion right before he exited the park, and glanced back. Police were swarming the area. Smiling grimly, he slipped out and headed home. He would catch up with Reena later. By now, Sara had to be worried.


	6. Chapter Five

The next few days were tense, despite the fact that Gregory was locked up. The police, with Interpol’s help, were trying to round up everyone who worked with him, and Neal had anxiously stayed out of sight, opting not to leave their flat. The only time he left was to make a statement at Reena’s office. She was still trying to keep his name and face out of the reports, citing him as a confidential informant.

But Neal was still worried.

He didn’t let on though, wanting Sara to relax and enjoy their upcoming trip to Paris. It was actually good timing, he thought, going out of the country while everything blew over.

The passports and money he’d retrieved from the safe deposit box were still hidden away, and Neal’s stomach clenched at the thought of needing them. He planned on taking them with to Paris, just in case of anything, but he really hoped they wouldn’t be necessary. 

He didn’t want to run again.

This was supposed to be his fresh start, his chance to start over clean. However, it looked he would never be able to put it all behind him. Something would always come up, and he didn’t know if that would ever change.

Putting his brush down, he stared at the image of Sara before him. He’d had to put it aside to work on the Matisse, but he’d been working to finish it the past few days. Seeing Sara smiling and happy again, both at home and in the painting, reminded him why he was trying to change his life. The rush of the con was starting to burn him out, and all he wanted to do was come home to Sara.

Neal had envied Peter and Elizabeth for so long, and now that he had the chance with Sara, he didn’t want to ruin it. He wanted to hold onto it for dear life.

Hearing a knock at the front door and the voices of Reena and Sara talking animatedly, he grabbed his brush to clean up. Maybe Reena would have good news.

As they sat down for dinner, she brought them up to speed. “The owners denied hiring Gregory to steal the painting, of course.”

“I’m not surprised,” Neal remarked and reached for his wine glass.

“Well, they claim they only wanted a reproduction, and Gregory took it upon himself to steal it. So they struck a deal, and they’re getting off with a slap on the wrist.”

Sara shook her head in disgust. “Money does wonders.”

Reena nodded. “It does. But we’re not really after them, so I don’t care. We charged Gregory with possession of stolen goods, and conspiracy to commit theft, but we can’t pin much more on him. Jimmy’s body hasn’t been found, and he won’t admit to stealing the Chagall, so we don’t anything else on him.

“We managed to grab Colin in the car waiting on Gregory, and charged him as an accessory, but he won’t get much time for that. Of course, if he’d talk, he’d probably get a better deal, but neither he nor Ethan is willing to give us anything on Gregory or any past jobs.”

Neal hesitated, his finger tracing the rim of his wine glass. “Has my name come up?”

“For now—no. But you were working in a capacity for law enforcement. It will come out sooner or later. The whole case rests on your involvement and how we were able to grab him with the painting because of your efforts. His solicitor is already making a fuss. And Gregory probably assumes you were involved anyway. Especially since you haven't been arrested.”

Nodding, he took a long drink of his wine. “Will I be called to testify?”

Reena sighed. “Most likely. I don't know how it worked with the FBI, but since here you're not a consultant, they'll want to talk to you. We can't testify on your behalf. I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear.”

Neal shook his head. “No, it's fine. I figured as much.” It was ironic how he had once wanted to testify, but now wanted to distance himself from the case. Consequences had never mattered more to him than now. Well, aside from the mess with Peter and Hagen. But this time, it was more than Neal's freedom at stake.

“If you make a deposition, we could try to submit that to court as evidence without you testifying. But it’s doubtful his solicitor will accept that arrangement. Honestly though, Gregory will know it was you, since you're the one who forged the painting.”

Neal shrugged and smiled tightly. “What's done is done. Not much we can do now.”

*~*~*~*

Sara wasn’t fooled.

Neal pasted on bright smiles and laughed easily, but it was all a show. She saw the lines on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking, and the coiled tension in his shoulders as he painted. He wasn’t trying to con her; the mask was just second nature to him. No, he thought he was protecting her.

He was worried—with good reason.

Staring down at the two passports and stack of Euros, she realized that it went beyond that. Neal was scared.

A couple of years ago she would have been angry to find them, but now she was just relieved that he had one for her. He wasn’t leaving her behind.

She fingered her photo on the second passport, and swallowed the lump in her throat when she read the names. Marc and Claire Pelletier. On top of the Empire State Building, she’d been caught off guard by the sincerity in Neal’s voice, for once seeing the raw and vulnerable side of him. He really loved her. Up until then, it had been fun, but she hadn’t thought about marriage.

Sara hadn’t been ready for that.

And now short of slipping a ring on her finger, he had made it clear that he wanted to marry her. The names on the passports didn’t matter. It was the intent behind them that did. For better, for worse, they _were_ together. He was worried, but he wasn’t running away. Not without her.

The sound of the water shutting off in the bathroom startled her out of her thoughts, and she quickly shoved the passports back into Neal’s suitcase. She moved to the clothes she’d laid out on the bed and started folding them neatly. The bathroom door opened and she looked up to see him standing there, towel loosely slung around his hips.

“I sure hope you’re not packing _all_ of your shoes. I’d rather not break my back hauling your suitcase around Paris.”

She glared at him and he chuckled. Crossing the room, he stopped in front of her, resting his arms around her waist. He kissed her forehead lightly and she sighed, leaning against his damp chest.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right?” he asked softly.

She nodded, too afraid to say anything, not after what she’d discovered. Sara knew then that she would do anything for him too. It was a dangerous line to cross, but they were in this together. And if he wanted to smile and laugh and pretend that everything was fine, then she would go along with it. She’d never backed down from a challenge so far, and she wouldn’t let one man control them.

This was _their_ life, and she wouldn’t give in to the fear.

*~*~*~*

Four days later, Sara leaned into his side as they walked hand in hand down the Champs-Élysées and let out a soft sigh. He had just taken her to Ladurée for brunch and she now had a box full of their famous macaroons. “I love Paris.”

“More than London?” he asked, swinging their hands in the air.

“Maybe.” She paused, pursing her lips as she considered this. “It's close. I grew up dreaming of visiting Paris. But England was as far as my parents were willing to take us outside of the US. So when I was ten, I begged my parents for French lessons.”

Neal laughed. “Somehow, that does not surprise me. And did they?”

Sara shook her head. “No, but they did get me some language cds. It was a start at least, and by the time I got to high school, I knew the alphabet and a very basic vocabulary.”

“Well, they say children learn foreign languages easier, so that probably helped.” He thought of the afternoons and weekends he spent poring over books about art in the library as a child, and wanting to learn French and Italian like the greats. 

Neal might have wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, but his passion had been art and he had wanted to know everything he could. Language had felt like a useful skill, even though he probably wouldn't encounter many French or Italians in St. Louis, but he hadn't let that discourage him. As he got older, language became something he liked to pick up wherever he went, and it was always good to blend in.

“We never went on any vacations after Emily ran away, but I held on to my dream, making plans to study abroad in college. One of the biggest reasons I chose Smith was because of their Junior Year Abroad program. Of course, I took every AP course that I could in high school, and summer courses in college, so it was actually my second year.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

Neal gave her a look. “You went to an all-girl college. If that doesn't explain the baton wielding rage that you take out on men, I don't know what does. You're also quite the over-achiever. I take it you graduated early.”

Sara looked ready to protest, but deflated quickly and ducked her head. “Yes. I got my B.A. in Art History, and it was actually my time in Paris that made me realize that I didn't want to work in a museum. They arrested Stéphane Breitwieser that year in Switzerland and he confessed to stealing over two hundred artworks. It just galled me that someone could walk into a museum and take a priceless piece of art because he wanted to.”

Groaning, Neal shook his head. “Oh, don't talk to me about Breitwieser. I still can't believe he kept everything at his mother's and she destroyed nearly everything. He's a disgrace to the profession.”

Sara rolled her eyes. “Of course, _that's_ what you would have a problem with.”

Neal stopped and turned to face her, waving a hand in the air. “He went back to the scene of the crime and was arrested! Then confessed to everything later. He might have been a good thief, but he was way too cocky for his own good.”

Sara's shoulders shook with laughter and she grinned. “You're one to talk, Caffrey. But that's all behind you, right?”

He shrugged, and smiled innocently. They started walking again, and he couldn't help but ask, too amused by how things had turned out, “So, I have Breitwieser to thank for introducing us, then? After all, you wouldn't have become an insurance investigator otherwise.”

“Not quite. He might have opened my eyes regarding art theft, but I actually decided to go to law school because of it. I wanted to do something about it, to go after guys like him.”

Neal stopped again, and placed a hand on her arm. “Wait a minute, you went to law school? How did I not know this?”

“Mozzie must be slacking,” she replied casually, a gleam in her eye and a smile that spoke of the pride she felt when she managed to catch him off guard. It wasn't very often. “I never sat for the bar, though.”

“I can't believe you're a lawyer. This could definitely come in handy now.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at this. “First off—I'm not a lawyer. And second, are you planning something I should be aware of?”

“What? No, no...” He shook his head. “I'm just saying. Mozzie was great to have on hand and all, but I would trust you more, seeing as you actually have a law degree.”

“Let's hope it never comes to that,” she replied dryly. “But I suppose I should be happy that there's something you trust me with more than Mozzie.”

Neal took her in his arms. “There’s a lot that I trust you with. Especially since, like you said, that's all behind me now.” He leaned in and kissed her softly, the two of them standing there quietly as the morning crowd of tourists surged around them.

After a few seconds, he reluctantly stepped back. “Now, you still haven't explained how you went from law school to white collar bounty hunter.”

“Ahh... well, it wasn't my intention, that's for sure.” She took his hand and they continued on their way back to the hotel. She wanted to drop off her macaroons before they headed off to Sacré-Cœur and Montmartre, where they planned on visiting the Clos Montmartre vineyard. “I took a part time job with Sterling Bosch at first just to help pay for school. I figured it would be good experience.”

“You liked it.” He grinned and bumped her playfully. “The thrill of going after the bad guy. Stealing back from them.”

“I did.” She hesitated. “Law was so...”

“Boring? Tedious?”

Sara slapped him lightly on the arm. “No. But it was slow. I felt like I got more accomplished, at least for the owners, by recovering their stuff. Sterling Bosch offered me a full time job after I graduated, and I accepted.”

“And the rest is history.”

They made their way back to their hotel, then across the city to Montmartre. Neal had to smile when Sara didn't argue when they took the funicular up the hill to Sacré-Cœur. As always, she was wearing impractical shoes. And yet it was later, when they were winding their way down the cobblestone streets lined with shops and cafes, that she tripped.

“You know, most people don't feel the need to wear heels while they traipse around a foreign city on vacation,” he remarked, chuckling as she cursed the street (but not her shoes).

Sara glared at him. “They're boots. It's not like I'm not wearing stilettos.”

Neal pointedly looked down at her shoes. “And those aren't four inch heels on them?”

He didn't get a response, but she clung to him tighter as they stumbled down the steep decline of the street. Neal had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, and smiled wide at the look of fierce concentration on her face as she watched where she stepped.

They both let out a sigh of relief when they made it to the bottom and started walking towards the Métro Station, hoping to see a cab before then.

Neal spotted one coming and hailed it quickly, watching as it pulled to the opposite side of the street. They had just stepped off the curb when Sara's shoe caught on something, and her arms went flailing. He grabbed her right as he saw a car coming straight at them out of the corner of his eye. 

He had only a moment to react, pulling her back from the street and they nearly fell on top of each other as they tumbled onto the sidewalk.

His heart was racing from the split second rush of adrenaline and realization of what had nearly happened. He had felt the air move around them and the rumbling of the pavement below their feet of the car narrowly missing them.

That hadn't felt like an accident.

He immediately turned to Sara, checking her over. “Are you hurt?”

She was brushing her hands over her pants, and he could see a red tinge to the palm of her hand from where she had hit the pavement. “What a jerk!”

Neal looked around, and saw a couple people staring at them concerned, but the car had not stopped. On the corner just behind them, he saw a man, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, smoking. The man caught Neal's eye and walked away calmly.

He blinked and swallowed, his hands clenching into fists. No, this was not happening. They had left the country. Gregory was locked up. They shouldn't be able to get to them.

But what was he thinking? Gregory had people all over Europe. And it didn't matter that he was in jail.

Neal didn't want to run, but he had the passports. Maybe just until things died down. He glanced back at Sara who was standing up and brushing herself off. He didn't want to do this to her. But either she got hurt or they went into hiding for a while.

He had to be a hundred percent certain though. Had it just been an accident? They were scheduled to leave the next morning, so he had to be sure. Disappearing into Europe was a lot easier in Paris than London. All they had to do was hop onto the next train out.

Taking Sara's hand, he led them over to the waiting taxi. He would give himself until the morning to decide. If nothing else happened and he didn't spot anyone else suspicious, they would go on home. But for now, he wasn't going to ruin the rest of her birthday.

And maybe he just wanted a little more time to be normal.

*~*~*~*

The following morning dawned early and slightly overcast, but despite that, Neal found himself relaxed and a bit embarrassed. Mozzie had probably rubbed off on him too much. And even though his friend's paranoid nature had been right many a time and saved their collectives butts, Neal knew that Mozzie's paranoia was also a little extreme at times.

He had seen no one that made him suspicious for the rest of the day and the two of them had enjoyed a nice stroll along the Seine and a lovely dinner that evening. Neal was resigned to the fact that they simply had encountered a rude Parisian driver and were lucky to have gotten away unhurt.

But that didn’t mean Neal wasn’t still cautious and weary of the situation at home. When they got back, he was going to check in with Reena. Eventually it would die down. Gregory’s men would move on, happy not to have been caught up in the sting and the resulting investigation.

Hopefully he and Sara would move on as well.

*~*~*~*

Neal took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet scent of flowers and fresh fruit lingering in the air. He smiled as he watched Sara lean over a bunch of poinsettias.

If there was one thing to be said about Europe, it was the plenitude of open air markets that Neal loved to visit. There was just a feeling of community when he walked around the stalls and talked with their owners. Plus, the produce was excellent.

It had become a weekly outing for the two of them on the weekends, to wander through a local farmers market, and pick up some fruit and vegetables for the week. They bought other stuff too, a scarf for Sara, and some cufflinks for himself. That particular artist also made beautiful earrings, and Neal had quietly arranged with him to create a pair for Sara with emeralds that he'd acquired at another stall a prior week. It had been a splurge after getting his first recovery check.

The Portobello Road Market in Notting Hill was their destination this weekend, and one of their favorites. They had been back in London almost a month and life had thankfully returned to normal. The case against Gregory was moving forward, and Neal had recorded a deposition that would hopefully be the end of his involvement. Now all he was looking forward to was spending his first Christmas with Sara. He briefly thought about the engagement ring that was hiding amidst his art supplies. He'd bought it before he'd left New York, knowing it wasn't a matter of 'if' but 'when' he would propose again. 

Though the ring was burning a figurative hole in his pocket, Neal was holding off. They’d only been living together for a few months and while they both knew it was serious, and he’d made his intentions clear—he wanted her to be sure. The Gregory situation had shown them that it wouldn’t always be easy. He came with a lot of baggage, and a past that wouldn’t go away.

But for now, he just wanted to spend the day walking around, enjoying the pre-holiday sights and sounds. The market was busy, all manner of people bustling around the separate markets, from the produce, to the antiques, fashion, and second hand goods.

“What do you want to do for Christmas?” he asked. "I need to start putting a menu together." He looked over the pears, thinking he might poach some later in the week.

Sara shrugged and picked up a pint of cranberries. “It doesn't matter. I'm usually by myself—I don't do too much.”

Neal glanced at her and frowned. While he hadn't had family in years, he'd had friends around to spend the holidays with. Well, aside from his time in prison. It saddened him that Sara was such a lonely person. It might only be the two of them now, but he wanted to make it special for her.

Handing the pears to the owner to weigh and bag, he pulled his wallet out and handed over the necessary cash, then tugged Sara by the hand. He needed to get her in a more festive mood. Glancing around, he looked for someplace that might be selling some treats and nearly stopped when he saw a man standing off to the side staring at them. The man's stance was stiff, and his demeanor was anything but friendly. He was not here to shop, that much was obvious, and he wasn't waiting on anyone either.

Neal didn't allow himself to react, leading Sara down the crowded street. He stopped them at another stall, and carefully looked back while Sara greeted the owner. The man was still there, watching them, arms crossed as he stood there in the shadows of the tented stalls. A woman pushed by him, but he didn't move. Neal glanced back to Sara, who was chatting with the woman manning the stall. There was a table full of cheeses and his eyes wandered over them quickly before selecting one at random and paying for it.

They strolled further down the street, and Neal turned to face Sara as if to talk to her, and saw the man now walking towards them out of the corner of his eye. Guiding her gently, his hand at her back, he moved them through the throng of people. Every few feet someone would stop and they'd have to weave their way around them, but it allowed him to glance back.

This time he was sure—they were being followed. 

When they got around a loud group of teens just standing there chatting away, he whisked them between two stalls and to the other side of the street.

“Neal, what's going on?” Sara asked, sounding concerned.

“Someone's been watching us.” He glanced both directions and back across the street. Neal could see the man pushing his way through now. Grabbing her hand, he led them back the way they had come from.

Sara's hand tightened around his. “Are they following us?”

“Yes,” he replied shortly. Neal cursed when he saw that the man had spotted them and was behind them again.

He quickened his step, not caring if the man realized that he'd been made. If he kept after them, then it didn't matter if they knew or not. And that was what worried Neal the most. When there was stealth involved, then you were usually okay. They wanted to watch you, see where you led them, and try to gather intelligence. But if they were just after you, then they wouldn't stop until they got to you.

Reaching a cross street, he took a sharp left, with Sara nearly tripping as he pulled her along. It was a short block and he took another left at the roundabout, hoping they could lose their tail. This side street was quieter, filled with terraced-houses and little foot traffic. They couldn't stay here long. Neal saw a park coming up on their right and headed for it.

Unfortunately he noticed as they neared it, that it was a private garden for the homes surrounding it. They stopped in front of the wrought iron gate and it clanged as he pulled on it.

Locked.

Sara looked up at him with wide eyes. “Neal?”

He shook his head. “It's fine.” But it wasn't. He didn't have his picks on him, and while once upon a time he might have climbed the fence, Neal figured Sara probably wouldn't be up to it.

Grabbing her hand again, they continued on until the next street and turned right, away from the quiet neighborhood.

“Where are we going, Neal? Do you think this has to do with Gregory?”

Neal had no doubt the man worked for Gregory. By now, he would have paid off a guard or two, found a cell phone, and somehow contacted his people outside. Neal's part in his arrest, whether Gregory assumed he had been working with the police from the beginning or that he had made a deal, would have the man seeing red. If he killed one guy for setting off alarms during a job, then it was safe to assume that he wanted Neal dead too. Sara was just collateral damage.

He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Gregory wouldn't try anything when it would be obvious that it was his doing. But sitting safely in jail, he apparently thought otherwise.

“We need to get to a major street—one with more people and traffic,” he explained. 

They came to a stop at the next cross street. It was bigger, but still lined with homes and apartment buildings. There were at least cars on the road though, and plenty of people out walking. They were still pretty exposed, but Neal knew they had a better shot at finding a taxi or a Tube station now. Wishing for just a moment that he was back in New York, where he knew the streets like the back of his hand, he made a snap decision and took another right. There were more people headed that way.

“Is that him?” Sara asked suddenly, fear coloring her voice, and it made him clench his jaw clench in anger. He'd never wanted to put her through this. She deserved a life without all of the chaos and pain he brought.

He looked ahead and spotted their tail at the corner. Sara hadn't seen him before, but it was easy to pick him out. The guy stood out from all the locals who were out for a leisurely Saturday stroll, on their way to the market and shops. He was craning his head every direction, visibly frustrated.

“Shit,” he cursed and nodded. Neal knew they could just turn around, but their best option was to slip into the crowds and backtracking would only bring unwanted attention.

Seeing a break in the traffic, he cut across the street, holding onto Sara tightly, and tried to blend in with a small family walking and talking animatedly on the sidewalk. He kept an eye on Gregory's man as they passed him, and noted another man had joined him. The second one pulled out a cell phone and both of them were scanning the streets.

He was anxious to increase their pace, to dart around everybody, so used to the crowded streets of New York City, but knew they had to stay hidden among the people around them. As they walked down the street, Neal saw the homes make way to shops and small buildings, and more cars ambled by. Signs for the Tube appeared and he sighed in relief. They were going the right way, and they had a much better chance of losing their tails. It was tempting to jump on the train, but he knew they would be sitting ducks just standing on the platform.

Glancing back, he noticed that the second man was walking towards them. Neal couldn't tell if they'd been spotted or if he was just heading for the Tube station to look for them.

“There's two of them now. One is on the other side of the street, a block back,” he murmured quietly to Sara. “We're going to duck into a shop and see if he passes us. Either we'll try to go out a back entrance, or-” he stopped when he saw a taxi coming their way.

Sara saw it too and nodded. He mentally judged when he would need to hail it, wanting to wait until the last moment, so not to attract attention. When it was maybe fifty feet away, he waved his arm. They slowed down, but did not stop until the taxi had pulled up on the other side of the street. Jogging across, he noticed that the second guy had spotted them and was now running their way.

Neal opened the door behind the driver and pushed Sara in, quickly getting in alongside her.

“Scotland Yard,” he told the driver and watched as the guy skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and pulled out his phone again.

Letting out a deep breath, Neal felt the knot in his stomach relax and looked over at Sara. “You okay?”

She was pale and her eyes stood out starkly from her face, but she nodded and gave him a weak smile. Neal reached over and squeezed her hand. “Everything will be okay.” But inwardly, he wondered if that was a lie. They had no cards to play with Gregory. The guy had nothing to lose and wouldn't call off his men if it meant getting revenge.

Leaning over, he brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear and whispered, “I won't let anything happen to you.” He kissed her softly and ran a thumb over her cheek. “I promise.”

Even if it meant he had to run, and take away the attention from her, he would do it.

The screech of tires filled the air suddenly and his mind had no time to react as he felt the impact of another car hitting them. He was sent flying across the back of the cab as the car careened through the intersection, and spun into a huge tree at the corner. Neal watched with horror as Sara's head hit the window and her whole body slammed against the door.

Neal reached for her, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the soft wool of her coat before his arm fell uselessly to it side, and his body crumpled in a haze of pain. His only thought as he mercifully blacked out was _I'm sorry, Sara_.


	7. Epilogue

Peter pulled the car to a stop alongside the quiet road winding through the cemetery. He looked out at the expansive snow covered lawn, glistening and sparkling under the morning sun. It was a beautiful day. It had just snowed two days earlier, giving the cemetery an ethereal feeling, a sense of peacefulness that clashed with the heartbreaking pain that had taken over Peter since the fateful call one week earlier.

He wiped his eyes and took a shuddering breath, knowing that once he stepped out, he had to acknowledge that it was truly over—that Neal was gone. No more would he see the bright blue eyes of his best friend as he laughed and smiled in that maddening, frustrating way of his that screamed _'You know you love me!'_ even as he ran off to do something crazy. They might have said goodbye when Neal moved to London, but Peter had always expected to see him again.

It wasn't fair. 

Peter knew he sounded like a child, but he didn't care at the moment. Neal had had everything going for him. He'd finished his sentence, accepted Sterling Bosch's job offer and was on track to having a normal life. A good life. Peter had half expected to get a phone call after Christmas saying he'd proposed to Sara. That was Neal, jumping into things, but if you looked closer, you'd realize that Neal always thought everything through carefully.

That's what made Peter so angry. For years, he’d thought Neal's recklessness would get him killed, but a stupid car accident took his life—and Sara's. After everything they'd gone through, after they’d _finally_ made the commitment, having gotten past all the bumps in the road and the distance that had separated them. They didn't deserve this. He'd always liked Sara, and even though on paper they were an unorthodox couple, she was the perfect match for Neal.

Peter had never understood Neal's blind devotion to Kate, especially after the music box debacle, but he hadn't discounted his love for the girl. However, Peter had always known that Neal deserved someone he could trust, someone that could keep up with him yet ground him at the same time. Sara had been that person. Neal might have projected an independent, devil-may-care attitude, but Peter had seen how much Neal had wanted to settle down, to have someone he could grow old with, and have a family. It was the constant internal battle he’d fought between the man and the con.

It didn't matter anymore.

He looked up when he felt a squeeze of his hand and found Elizabeth watching him worriedly. It had hit them all hard—the news so unexpected, that many people at the office thought it a rumor until Peter had brought everyone together to officially acknowledge it. Telling Elizabeth that night (Peter hadn't had the strength to tell her over the phone) had been nearly impossible. She'd been devastated and without a word, they'd held each other for hours, mourning the man that had become a part of their family.

Even after telling Elizabeth, delivering the news to everyone else didn't get any easier. He and Diana had deliberated on who would tell Mozzie, and finally Peter volunteered, wanting to keep Diana's relationship with her occasional babysitter on friendly (if sometimes contentious) terms. But the idea of actually telling Mozzie terrified him. The man had been very protective of Neal over the years and had not hesitated to take his grief out on Peter and the FBI. Even though this had been an accident, the result would be the same. Neal had chosen to go straight, and for that, Mozzie would always blame 'the Suit.'

So, partly to have a buffer, but mostly so he wouldn't have to go through it twice, he called up June and asked to meet with her and Mozzie together. He figured they could comfort each other at least.

But he felt like a coward.

June took it hard, and watching her crumble had been like a kick to the stomach. He didn't know the circumstances of Byron's death, but he imagined Neal's death affected her just as much. She had looked after him like he was her own son.

Mozzie had gone silent. It had been unnerving, to say the least. Peter had expected outrage, accusations—anything but the stone cold silence. Finally Moz had taken June in his arms, murmured something to her, too soft for Peter to hear, but the look he'd given Peter said it all. So after quietly telling them that he would be in touch with further details, Peter had left, his tail tucked between his legs.

The mood at home and around the office was somber, the Christmas decorations and Holiday Party feeling starkly out of place and inappropriate as they planned a memorial service. The beauty and wonder of the season that usually filled Peter with such happiness now seemed to mock him, with its joyful music and smiles on even the rudest of New Yorkers.

There would be no Merry Christmas in the Burke household or the White Collar office.

They'd had to find someone from another department to handle the office today, seeing as the entire White Collar division was attending the service. Everyone had come to like and respect Neal during his time there. It was easy to forget the bad times now, and no one wanted to dwell on things that couldn't be changed when the man was gone.

“Peter...” Elizabeth gently prodded. She smiled sadly and he nodded. He couldn't put it off any more. Bringing her hand to his lips, he dropped a kiss and with a deep breath, got out of the car.

They walked silently towards the tent where chairs had been set up. A crowd was already forming, and he knew Neal would have been secretly pleased at how many people were there, especially from the FBI. He almost laughed when he saw Mozzie sitting amongst a small group that was trying to inconspicuously stay far away from the agents milling around. Only Neal would manage to bring together the two disparate groups without questioning glances or tempers flaring, itchy trigger fingers aside.

As they got closer, Peter saw Hughes separate himself from a group of agents and walk towards them.

“Peter. How are you?”

He blinked, and had to look away for a second before turning back to his old boss, trying to reign in the sob that was threatening to escape. “I've been better, Reese. It hasn't quite sunk in, yet. I keep thinking he'll call one day or I'll find a postcard in the mail letting me know he's off somewhere.”

Reese nodded and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “It's a damn waste. He was a good guy, despite everything he'd done.”

Peter could only nod, unable to talk without losing his composure. 

“Have you heard if they found the guy?” Reese asked, steering the conversation towards something they could focus better on.

He shook his head. “No. The police found the SUV abandoned, no prints. There's no clear video of the driver. Since it was stolen, they have no leads and are likely to close the case soon. Hit and run.”

“Damn.”

Peter mentally echoed his sentiment. When he'd called a friend in Interpol to get the police report, he'd been expecting the standard car accident. Someone ran a red light, or had a stroke or something. Finding out that the SUV that had hit their taxi had been stolen and there was no sign of the person responsible, it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. There would be no justice or even forgiveness. 

Just unanswered questions and a broken heart.

The three of them walked back to the tent, and made their way to the front row. Diana and Jones were already there, sitting next to June and her granddaughter. They all smiled sadly at each other, and June looked ready to cry at any moment, her eyes red rimmed and watery. Peter leaned down to hug her and felt her shudder in his arms.

He sat down next to Jones, and looked out at the ground where a marker had been placed. Neal and Sara's bodies had been cremated in London and sent home. Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie had talked and carefully made the decision to spread his ashes off the Amalfi coast, knowing he'd want to be free. The young man had loved traveling the world and this seemed only fitting.

Peter had made the decision to place the marker next to Ellen’s headstone. She was his closest relative, if not by blood, then by years spent loving him as if he was her own. It just didn't feel right to place him next to Kate. Sara's marker would be with her parents. They would have a small private service for her afterwards, and then their small group would meet up at June's. He had a feeling he wouldn't be fit to go to work tomorrow.

Diana leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "I keep thinking that if Neal's watching, he's probably proud as a damn peacock, grinning that shit-eating grin of his."

Jones smiled wryly, and tipped his head in agreement. "Oh, he's watching, for sure."

"And probably upset that this is what it took for me to get a new suit," Peter added, his tone sobering at the thought of Neal standing next to him, critiquing the cut and his choice of tie. El had insisted on a new one, even though Peter knew he would never be able to wear it again. Maybe that was the point.

The service started a few minutes later, and while there was no casket to stare at, or physical body to bury, Peter felt himself choking up as he stared at the small marker bearing Neal's name. This was Neal's _funeral_. He wouldn't be popping over to his house and bugging him over breakfast or teasing him about his lucky tie. It felt unreal. Death was always a shock, he knew that, but he still couldn't believe that Neal was really and truly gone.

The priest finished and looked to him. Peter stood up after squeezing Elizabeth's hand and slowly walked to where the priest stood. He glanced around the varied group of people there—agents, staff, and criminals alike, they were all there for Neal. His hands fell to his side, and he wished he had a stand or pulpit or something to cling to, because he wasn't sure he could keep himself upright for too long.

“I—” he stopped, his voice breaking, and he cleared his throat. “I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, and I've known Neal for over ten years now. He was my best friend. It sounds strange, I know, considering who we were, but Neal was a special guy. I chased him for three years, and he sent me birthday cards and champagne to our surveillance van.”

There was a soft smattering of laughter amongst the crowd. He took a deep breath. “I had the chance to get to know the real Neal Caffrey—not the conman in the case file, but the man behind the charm and fancy hats. He had a big heart. I think the fact that he broke out of prison to find his girlfriend, with only three months left, says it all. Neal would do anything for the people he loved.”

He paused and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Of course, it wasn’t always completely legal, but Neal liked to think outside the box.”

Peter looked to Elizabeth, who gave him a reassuring smile. He straightened and rested his hands on his hips. “I still remember the first day he showed up at my house. I found him on my couch, talking with my wife— _petting_ my dog, and I was so angry. How dare he just waltz in like that? But he quickly became a fixture, a part of our lives—our family.” He shook his head and had to chuckle at the memories. “I can’t tell you how many times my wife called on him instead of me to do things for her. Of course, on the flip side, I got out of all the art shows and the food tasting. That was a win in my book.”

He watched as Elizabeth laughed and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. They really had been a family, he realized with a pang in his heart.

“Neal had his faults though. He made plenty of mistakes, but he always had the best intentions at heart. We might not have always agreed on the best way to do things, and there were times when he sent my blood pressure through the roof with his crazy shenanigans, but I trusted him to have my back.”

Peter wrung his hands together, and stared out at the cemetery, past the crowd of people. “We had our rough patches, and... and I said things over the years that I regret. But he always found a way to forgive. And we were able to move on.”

He swiped a hand over his eyes and sniffed. “I wouldn't give any of it up. I don't regret ever taking his deal, because he opened my eyes and I learned a lot from him. I like to think he learned from me too. He worked as hard as, if not harder than, some of us, and I... I will always consider him my partner.”

Peter looked over at the marker. “It will never be the same without you, buddy. We're going to miss you.” He closed his eyes and his shoulders shook as a sob overtook him.

“Goodbye, Neal.”

*~*~*~*

A hand ran softly through his hair, gently caressing him. The soft pressure slowly woke him up and his eyelids fluttered as he focused on the face before him.

Sara's eyes were shining, and she had never looked more beautiful to him, despite the bruises covering half her face. She smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Hey, there,” she said quietly.

He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed back. “Hey,” he murmured.

She leaned over and kissed him softly.

He smiled weakly, then closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. Her hand remained tightly clutched in his, a solid reminder that he was not alone. He might have lost everyone else, but he hadn't lost her. That's all that mattered now.

Their bodies would heal and their bruises would fade. Together they would move on and build new lives, and find new dreams. Be it as Marc and Claire, Alec and Jessica, or whoever. It’s all he could hold on to as he said goodbye to everything else—to a life he’d come to love and the people that had become family. But they were all safe now, and that was all he could ask for.

~FIN~

 

...for now!  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that means there is a sequel where you'll find out exactly what happened to Neal and Sara. Did you really think I would kill them?!! The sequel is finished and with the beta! I hope to post after Big Bang finishes, sometime in October. I want to thank everyone who went along for the ride. This was a labor of love for me (and my beta!) for so long, I can't believe it's over. But I have a lot planned, so I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have, because this is not the end.


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